#i definitely need to send the artist a tip in the morning when i am not half asleep and crashing hardcore ahsbsnsjs

[threnodians]

so i purchased a commission of kaeya and i (shocking) about two weeks or so ago and earlier this evening i got sent the result from the artist!

[ang3lik]

me immediately reblogging and participating is so true. i love that you're a lana girl just like me <333 congrats, angel you deserve the absolute world!

❤️ please ! fandom: scream + here's my funky little description!

full name: allyson. ( it's actually my middle name ), entj, she/her, 19. my favorite colors are pink and navy blue. i'm 5'11, afro-latina, and a scorpio sun, taurus moon, and pisces rising (according to my chart i'm ruled by jupiter and the sun). i am a lana truther but some of my other favorite artists include banks, lorde, bad bunny, and coco + clair clair.

i'm bisexual, but i have a larger attraction to women than men. my relationship with my mum is a bit strained but i'm close to my dad (not in the internalized misogyny way though). i was raised in the south (to this day i don't know why my parents did this to me) but spent a lot of time up north and went through the catholic girl phase including ending up wanting to kiss girls lmao. i'm deeply spiritual but not religious and wear a lot of jewelry (gold and silver).

right now i'm in school for cosmetic chemistry to learn how to formulate makeup. i am obsessed with aesthetics. i'm very sentimental and emotional but not when you first meet me. when it comes to love i fall last but the hardest. i love to read (currently rereading beautiful creatures which is an all-time fave) and some of my favorite films are jackie, arrival, last night in soho, thoroughbreds, and the great gatsby. i can be kind to a fault but i don't care because i'd rather die than be known as mean.

according to my friends here are things that they associate with me: leaving long messages for them that connect to bluetooth in their car, coconut and vanilla scented anything, spiced coffee in the mornings bc i learned it from my mum, bamboo hoops, slowed lana songs, minimalism w art deco accents, annotations in my books to the point where the pages are cracking, long box braids, almond shaped nails, pinterest, the almond blossom painting by van gogh (this made me cry), birth charts, going to the cinema alone, upstate new york, and vacations on film.

i am so sorry if this is way too much info but i love you and i'm so proud of you!! you deserve everything you're getting and you are so sweet to top it all of! can't hug you in person but know that i'm always sending you my love, all of it.

my love !! you’re so sweet and all the best girls are lana girls i swear !!

honestly you give me such aqua, mermaidy, beachy, beautiful vibes ! i love earthy girls and with you being an earth sign i feel like your aura and vibe just ties all in so well ! you seem so pretty and peaceful i can just tell you’re a wonderful person ! 💗

but i totally ship you with… jill roberts.

you’re both complete opposites, but opposites attract! you wear the pink shirts and jill wears the blue plaid! a pisces and a taurus are a terrific match! you’re both able to comfort each other in times of need and are a strong, stable couple! you bring a lot of love and brilliance to each other, and help each other find the happiness and delight in things!

you’re both lana lovers! you help jill bring out her emotions and express them to you, it t as yes a-lot for her to open up towards you but you’re her rock! you both share a love of reading and recommend books to each other! you’re both very much vanilla girls, you both smell very sweet, always stealing each others coconut scented body sprays and if you ever trade clothes you can smell each other on them!

you definitely do each others nails! painting them pastels with french tips or even just giving each other manicures sometimes! jill has plans to visit new york at some point and she really wants to take you with her, and explore the big apple with you! she can’t wait for all the adventures and exploring you’ll get up-to! but you both live a very simple life too! you both enjoy just relaxing and being in each others presence.

i hope you like it ! i would love to see you and jill together oml ! 💗

[gukyi]

midas | jjk

summary: jeon jungkook was born with a silver spoon in his mouth and the power to turn whatever he wants into pure gold. you were born with healing and invisibility powers but without a cent to your name. so when you’re plucked off of the streets for pickpocketing and assigned to be his minder as punishment, you realize you’re going to have to overcome a lot more than class differences if either of you are going to get what you want.

{enemies to lovers!au, ceo!au, magical realism!au}

pairing: jeon jungkook x female reader genre: fluff, comedy, angst word count: 32k (my hand slipped) warnings: alcohol consumption (brief), mentions of bruising and injuries, characters being emotionally constipated and afraid of commitment, your usual guyi e2l lineup a/n: finally!! oh god this fic took forever to write and just kept getting longer and longer. remember when i overestimated the wc by saying 25k-30k? yikes. anyway, i hope you all enjoy this monster! nothing says gukyi like a jk e2l fic, am i right?

The best time to be on the streets is just past noon on weekdays and eleven o’clock on Sunday mornings. When every working professional is out on their lunch break or weekend brunch, basking in the nice weather by choosing to fill up every outdoor dining area available to them. When they plop their bags, their purses and totes, on the chairs opposite them or onto the pavement beside them, thinking that the plastic fence that guards them will be enough to deter pickpockets and thieves. 

Unluckily for them, they usually fail to consider the prospect of someone invisible swooping in to steal the bills from their wallets, a nondescript force reaching into their purse as they stare down at their phones while they eat, forkfuls of to-go salads and pasta dishes stuffed into their mouths. 

Pickpocketing is a skill that the most desperate learn and the shameless master. Normally, people work in teams, one person to distract and the other to fish for the wallet, grabbing the cash and credit cards before tossing it onto the sidewalk and disappearing without a trace. If you wanted to be especially good at it, you would have to be able to complete the entire thing in less than thirty seconds, in the time it takes for people to switch trains in the subway stations. 

But when you work alone, you don’t get that luxury.

But you suppose that the higher powers above, whatever they may be, are relatively benevolent, because in exchange for your prickly personality, you were blessed with the gift of being invisible. 

Unfortunately, that’s something that you don’t need magic to feel. 

The truth is that it’s always been easy to ignore a girl who has no family, no friends, and no money. Living isn’t the hard part, living with purpose is. Nobody wants to pay any attention to someone who has nothing, literally nothing, to offer in return. At least, nobody interesting. 

The only times when you ever feel truly at peace are when you’re sleeping, and when you’re walking down the streets of the city, letting the rest of the world pass you by without sparing you a second glance. You’ve never been one desperate to stick out, to make an impression. Never been someone that people stop to do a double take at when they walk past you. Strange as it sounds, you love the feeling of being insignificant. It is, in a way, liberating. 

So far today you’ve hauled eighty dollars and a subway card from the wallet of some poor tourist standing outside of a bakery looking at a map the size of Jupiter. Some people you feel particularly bad about robbing, but a bald man with dad sunglasses and a fanny pack isn’t one of them. Besides, being pickpocketed is a classic tourist experience. You’re actually doing him a favor. Something to check off of his bucket list. 

You stow away the money and the card into your pocket, bills folded neatly into your raggedy jeans, rips and holes lining the fabric not for fashion, but from wear alone. You’ll make a mental note to buy yourself a croissant or something later. A treat to reward yourself for all of the hard work you’re putting in today. You’ll be able to pay off your phone bill for the next month with this money.

When the lunch breaks are over, you’ll probably retire to your bed and wallow in self-pity for a little before returning for the dinner rush. Having no life is a constant job, and you don’t even get any legally-mandated breaks to keep you going. Every moment you aren’t on the streets is another moment you aren’t making any money. It’s sort of like being a salesman, which, if you think about it, is just a legal way to rob people. When have salespeople ever sold something of real value?

With the eighty dollars on your mind, you start to scope out nice bakeries on your route, coffee shop signs and pastries on display in the window, looking for a nice place to settle down and buy yourself something sweet. Seeing as you live off of Campbell’s soups and bread from dollar stores, anything is an upgrade. 

You walk a couple more blocks before stumbling upon one of those picture-perfect bakeries, with pristinely decorated cupcakes and cakes lining the window display. You can tell that this place is good because there’s a line out the door and a little seating area that is packed to the brim. However, you are currently invisible, which doesn’t accommodate purchasing goods particularly well, but you make a mental note to return to the bakery a little later when people can actually see you. As if you’d ever turn right here, in front of all of these people. 

While you’re here, you decide to snoop around the line and the outdoor seating area to see if anybody strikes your fancy. Everyone standing either has their bag on their shoulder or their wallets gripped tightly between their fingers, so that’s off the table. But, there is one woman wearing a massive wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses as she chows down on a pink strawberry cupcake, her Louis Vuitton tote bag sitting a good two inches away from her, possibly even out of her periphery. 

Bullseye. 

There’s never a need to be stealthy when you’re already invisible, so you trot over, eyeing the woman to make sure that she can’t see anything in front of her. She doesn’t seem to be paying any attention, so you quickly reach down into her bag, a close watch on her gaze, hand fishing around amongst the receipts and the lipsticks and hand sanitizer until you feel her leather wallet. Nimble fingers fumble with the zipper until the tips come into contact with the crisp dollar bills, which you quickly nick and stuff into your pocket, bounding off without a trace. 

Halfway down the block, you surreptitiously glance at your haul—two hundred dollars!

That’ll be enough to last you and your phone bill for the next three months, at least. 

You’re so busy mentally applauding yourself for your pickpocketing skills that you don’t notice someone standing right in front of you. At least, you don’t notice until you crash into them, the surprise forcing you to turn. 

You sputter out an apology, hoping that whoever it is you’ve nearly run over isn’t observant enough to notice that the currently-visible thing they bumped into was previously invisible, and that’s when you notice exactly who it is that you’ve collided with. 

It’s the woman from the bakery, Louis Vuitton bag and everything. And she’s staring you down like there’s no tomorrow, arms crossed over her middle-aged chest as she sends daggers at you. Oh, you’re so fucked. 

“Sorry?” You say unhelpfully, already knowing the direction of this conversation. This woman wouldn’t be sending you a death glare if she didn’t already know who you are. They definitely did this just to trap you, set you up like a mouse and a cheese trap. 

“Don’t play stupid, Y/N,” she orders. “You must already know why I’m here.”

“I was hoping you’d let me off the hook?” You say guiltily, her hand already wrapping tightly around your wrists as she handcuffs you, sharp metal pressing against your wrists. One wriggle and you know that there’s no magicking yourself out of these. They think of everything, they do.

“Tell that to the courts,” she snaps, effectively shutting you up as she drags you away, money digging a hole in your pocket as you begin to envision yourself six feet under. You’re as good as dead, caught red-handed.

Well, life was good while it lasted. At least you might never have to have Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup anymore. 

There’s no such thing as an attorney in the Realm. No such thing as a fair trial (even if they say there is), no such thing as defense and prosecution. No grand juries, no crowds, no sketch artist. Just a judge with a stick up his ass and a punishment to be delivered. You’re either guilty or a liar. 

And you’re rather good at being both. 

“The charge is as follows,” says the burly man at the head of the makeshift courtroom, reading off of a piece of parchment like it’s 1433 and the printing press hasn’t been invented yet. “Burglary, possession of illegally-gained goods, and petty theft.” Because charging you for burglary alone wasn’t enough, apparently. You have a sneaking suspicion that they invented the other two charges just so they could have more to punish you for. “Does the defendant have anything they wish to say?”

“Don’t you guys have anything better to do with your lives?” You ask with a dramatic sigh, having already resigned yourself to your fate. “Like, you could be playing golf round after golf round instead of sitting here, charging an orphan girl with no money.”

“This is my job,” says the burly man. Clearly he has never done anything fun in his entire life. 

“Also, stealing is my only crime, right? So do you really need to punish me like I’ve murdered someone?”

“You burglarized a Realm Leader,” he deadpans. As if Realm Leaders really wear wide-brimmed hats, sunglasses, and carry around a three-thousand dollar Louis Vuitton bag on their days off. 

“You set me up,” you accuse. Might as well go out swinging. “What if I charge you for lying, huh? How will you be punished?”

“Anything else?”

“Fuck you,” you spit. 

The burly man sighs, thinks about the potential verdict for approximately two seconds, and says, “The court finds the defendant guilty of all three charges. Sentencing will now be arranged.”

Big whoop. You could sniff out your ’guilty’ verdict from three miles away, knowing that the Realm takes plenty of pride in charging its constituents for whatever crime that they can invent. You slouch back in your chair as the judge and his heartless buddies discuss your punishment. You suppose that being jailed might not be too bad—you’d always have meals and a place to sleep, even if you would have to give up magic in return. And community service would also be alright. You’d be fine with cleaning up the expressway that runs through the city, though knowing the Realm, they’d probably put you up to some stupidly dangerous magical task. And at this point, death seems rather inviting, and would solve everybody’s problems because they wouldn’t have to deal with you and you wouldn’t have to deal with them anymore. 

The judge coughs, summoning the bare minimum of your attention. “The court has reached a sentencing decision for the convicted. We are offering you two options, of which you may choose one.”

Right, like you’d willingly volunteer for both punishments. 

“You may either be sentenced to serve time in the Realm Penitentiary for six months with the possibility of parole after four, or conduct supervised community service until the task at hand has been completed. Please select which option you would like.”

It’s like asking you to choose between being given one hundred dollars or having to pay one hundred dollars. What does the Realm think people will pick? Do they really think anyone in their right mind would choose to be jailed, forbidden to use their magic, and then let the Realm trick them into thinking parole is really an option, over some measly community service?

“Community service,” you say gruffly. 

“Excellent,” the judge says, writing something with a quill and ink because apparently, ballpoint pens are too complicated. “Your community service will be supervised by a Realm Leader with visionary powers, so you will not need to meet with them in order to discuss your progress, nor will they watch you in person.” And they said that crystal balls aren’t real. 

“What do I have to do?” You ask. Knowing them, it’ll probably be something like scrubbing all of the toilets in the Penitentiary, or going deep into the Amazonian forest to collect some magical sap or fighting off a magical beast. Something that could serve as a death sentence, or at least be extremely unpleasant, in the hopes that it’ll get you off of their backs. 

“The court will be assigning you as a minder to correct the ways of another mage,” the judge states. 

A minder? 

So, your community service is that you have to be a glorified magickal babysitter?

Well. It could be worse. 

“Alright, fine,” you say, though it’s not like you have a choice one way or another. Where was your minder? Why weren’t you assigned one, instead of just being hauled off by an undercover Realm leader to be sentenced for the same crime three times over? “Who will I be assigned to?”

The judge looks down at the parchment in front of him through his tiny old man glasses, and says, “Jeon Jungkook.”

Huh?

Jeon Jungkook lives on the top floor of an apartment complex the size of the Empire State Building and worth more than your entire life. There are ceiling-to-floor windows that span the entire perimeter of the penthouse, a whole security team in the lobby vetting every single person that walks through the automatic glass doors, and an elevator with a touch-screen instead of buttons. It sickens you, the fact that some people can live like this. The fact that some people have known only this world as their entire life, and have not once glanced the other way. 

Getting to Jeon Jungkook’s front door isn’t the hard part. The Realm gave you succinct instructions and permission to use your powers whenever necessary throughout the whole thing, two things more than you thought they would. It’s easy to slide by the big buff security guards when they can’t see you. Easy to turn in the comfort and privacy of the elevator, easy to figure out which door is his when he’s the only person who lives on the top floor. 

The hard part is getting there without feeling like you’re way in over your head. Getting Jeon Jungkook to stop abusing his powers will be no easy feat. He’s rich, powerful, and spits on people like you, people who are not either of those things. Not to mention the fact that if he really wanted to, he could just turn you to gold and set you up in his penthouse like a statue, frozen in time. 

For once, the only thing that makes you feel a little bit better is the Realm. They’ve handed you a strict order that neither you nor he can magic your way out of, lined with stipulations and regulations and requirements that both of you will follow or so help you God. If Jeon Jungkook doesn’t comply, he, his company, and his reputation are done for. 

So at least there’s that. 

Jeon Jungkook’s front door is made of a deep mahogany brown and about thirteen feet tall, towering over you just to serve as a reminder that he can pretty much afford to buy out the entire city if necessary. You feel like an ant in comparison, an insignificant little thing, no money, no power, no nothing. 

A fluorescent doorbell light flashes beside the door frame. 

The sound echoes throughout the hallway you’re standing in, a classic ding-dong noise that reverberates across the walls. 

“Coming!” A voice from inside calls. Is Jungkook expecting someone?

You quickly make any last minute efforts to look as presentable as possible—well, as presentable as someone who lives in a dilapidated, abandoned house at the edge of the city can be—before the door opens. 

For someone who’s got money to burn, Jeon Jungkook sure as hell doesn’t look like it. He’s wearing an oversized button down that hangs loose by his thighs, ripped jeans, and a pair of charcoal grey socks, like he got home from work five hours ago and decided to change into whatever feels most comfortable. 

“Oh, good, I called and they said that you would be another twenty minutes,” Jungkook says, breathing out a sigh of relief. “Let me go grab my wallet, you can just set the pizza down on the counter.”

“Uh, I’m not—”

Jungkook rushes off down one of the fifteen different hallways that branch off of the main living room, leaving you stranded as you wander into his massive abode. Windows line the walls, giving you a perfect view of the city below you, twinkling lights of skyscrapers as people slowly leave their offices and return home. His kitchen alone is double the size of where you live. How can one person possibly take up all of this space? Doesn’t it ever get lonely?

You wait awkwardly besides the counter, which is pizza-less, until Jungkook returns, a shiny black wallet between his fingers as he fumbles for some cash. And normally, you have zero qualms stealing from the rich and giving to the poor (aka, yourself), but seeing as he thinks you’re providing a service, you have the compassion to feel at least a little bit bad. 

Jungkook stops when he notices the bare countertop. “Uh,” he begins with a frown, “where’s the pizza?”

“I’m not the pizza delivery guy,” you explain hesitantly. You don’t suppose Jungkook would have opened the door otherwise. 

“Then where is the pizza delivery guy?” He asks, like you somehow know. 

“I don’t know,” you tell him. Was an interrogation supposed to be a part of this?

“Who are you?”

“I’m Y/N,” you say, hesitant to touch anything except the floor for fear that you will either dirty or break something and then spend the rest of your life trying to pay back the damages. “I’m your minder.”

“What?” Jungkook scrunches up his nose in disgust. “I never asked for a minder.”

“Well, you’ve been assigned one anyway,” you say with a frown. To be fair, it’s not like you expected this to be easy.

“That’s ridiculous,” Jungkook dismisses, already making his way to the door to shoo you off into the night, like he probably does with all of his problems. “I don’t need a minder. I’m fine.”

You look over his shoulder, noticing the flecks of golden accents that line his house, the golden teapots on shelves, picture frames hung up on the wall. Even the rods that hold up the massive satin curtains are gold. There isn’t so much gold to be garish and kitschy, like a teenager who can’t control what he touches, but enough to assert that he’s either wealthy or gifted, or in his case: both. 

“That really sucks, because I’m still your minder,” you tell him, refusing to budge. Jungkook can’t possibly imagine he’ll somehow be able to get out of this. Not when the law is working against him.

“Says who?” Jungkook spits back. 

“The Realm,” you tell him rudely, manifesting the agreement the Realm had given you to force Jungkook into accepting. The parchment is laid out on the countertop, curling up at the edges, black ink written neatly on top of it. He glares at it suspiciously, as if he’s suspected that you forged it. When you make no efforts to explain yourself further, he takes a hesitant step forward, eyes narrowing in on the parchment sitting in front of the both of you. In pitch black ink, loopy calligraphy, it says this:

As recommended and required by the Realm, its leaders, and its government, the recipient, Jeon Jungkook is to be assigned a minder, whose duty is to watch over him, regulate his use of magic, and work towards decreasing his magical activity. 

This minder is being assigned as a result of misuse of magic by the recipient, either by abuse or from the intent to inflict harm upon mages or non-magic users. The Realm decrees that all mages who disobey the laws that govern society either be reformed or punished. 

This minder must ensure that the recipient makes progress towards decreasing his magical activity by indefinitely accompanying and supervising him for every hour of the day. This minder’s term will expire once they have achieved their goal of decreasing the recipient’s use of magic and ensuring that abuse of it does not reoccur. 

Should the recipient disobey this proclamation in any form, including vandalism, ignorance, or rejection, he will be brought to court and sentenced to jail accordingly. 

Jungkook seems to read the parchment for about five seconds before crumpling it up in his hands and tossing it into the trash bin by the edge of the counter. 

“Absolutely not,” he scoffs. “I do not need a minder. I don’t know what The Realm told you but I have no problem with my powers and your services are not required. There was probably some sort of mistake.”

As if. The paper says his name. Jungkook’s almost as bad at violating the rules of the Realm as you are. 

“Uh—” you begin again, but Jungkook is already shooing you out of his penthouse, flicking you away like an animal that’s gotten too close. You find yourself backing up furiously in a desperate attempt to not be trampled by him and his oversized button-down and intimidating death glare, until you’re a foot out of his apartment. 

“Maybe you can go bother someone else instead,” he suggests unhelpfully, before slamming the door in your face. 

You stand there for a few more seconds, face to face with the dark mahogany wood. The bright side is that, even if Jungkook only read the first paragraph of the decree and then tossed it into his recycling bin, there’s no escaping the Realm. You have half a mind to just bugger off and let him face the consequences of his own actions. You can picture it in your head: Realm officers barging into his place of work and arresting him on the spot for consciously disregarding an order of the Realm. That might satiate you for a while. 

Resigning yourself to the fact that if you knock on Jungkook’s door and politely suggest that he pull the parchment out from the trash and read the whole thing will probably not go down particularly well, you turn, letting your body vanish before you, before making your way back to the elevator. The pizza delivery guy arrives just as you reach it, letting you easily slide past him as he goes to make Jungkook’s day a little better by being an expected guest rather than an unwarranted visitor. 

Jungkook may not have agreed to this today (not that he has a choice in the matter), but there’s always tomorrow. 

Passing by the security, who spare no second glance at the fact that the automatic glass doors have just opened seemingly by themselves, you turn left when you reach the sidewalk and head home. 

Home is a janky abandoned house at the very edge of the city, where the buildings meet train tracks and old highways, graffiti decorating every open surface within a five-mile radius. It’s not so much a house as it is a shack, old and rickety and forgotten. You think that the locals and the nons believe the place is haunted, since no one ever comes within one hundred feet of the entrance, the broken glass in the windows and big red spray-painted X on the door deterring most folks. 

People who invite you into their houses and say, “it’s not much, but it’s home,” are such liars. For as long as you have lived here, this place has never felt like home. You never come back from a long day and think, ah, home sweet home. You will never dream of wasting away within these walls. That’s a death sentence. 

You enter through the back door, ducking your head low to avoid hitting it on the lightbulb hanging from the ceiling by a wire or two. You’re not electrically-proficient enough to know how to fix it yourself so it’s less of a fire hazard, and you don’t have nearly enough money to call anyone to come repair it, so there it stays. It still works, though, and you use it in a pinch when you can’t see where you’re stepping. 

There’s a small pile of folded clothing on the floor by the mattress, the remnants of a past life that feels more like an alternate universe than it does part of your history. The fridge doesn’t work, nor do most of the utilities, but the little stack of Campbell’s soup cans on the countertop is reliable and unchanging. As is the fact that you will probably never get out of this dump, so long as you shall live.

When you were little, you used to dream of living in a big castle, and wanting for nothing. You would have people to cook for you, clean for you, dress you, bathe you, entertain you. All of these stories about being a little princess, doted on and loved by all, innocent and pure and beautiful. All of these stories about finding Prince Charming, meeting the love of your life as waltzes into your life on a gorgeous white horse, getting married, having kids, and growing old together. You dreamed of a perfect life, a perfect love, where you never have to worry about anything, where no one is ever mean or rude, no government to dictate what you do. 

It’s no wonder all of those stories were simply fairy tales. 

It makes you even angrier when you think about Jeon Jungkook. He’s lived a life as close to perfection as possible, born with a silver spoon in his mouth and a silver platter placed in front of him. He’s grown up with people adoring him, telling him he can do no wrong, rewarding him with a brand new toy when he gets in trouble, teaching him that his powers are for himself first and for other people next to you. Not much is fair in the world, but especially not the fact that he was bestowed with the gift of being able to turn whatever he wishes into gold. 

He is everybody’s Prince Charming: wealthy, handsome, powerful. Too bad you aren’t a princess anymore.

Strangely enough, even after a long day, you aren’t feeling at all hungry. The scent of the pizza Jungkook had ordered to his door was enough to satisfy you, a warm feeling settling in the pit of your stomach. Normally, this late at night, you might even be daring (or sleep-deprived) enough to break into one of your precious ramen packs, but instead you collapse onto the mattress, heavy heart willing you fast asleep, the light flickering above your head. 

The next day you are faced with a choice: leave Jungkook alone and let him deal with the repercussions of his actions on his own (much to your delight), or go back and continue pestering him until he agrees to having a minder (much to your chagrin). 

A new parchment has manifested itself on the counter, words copied from the one Jungkook threw out before your eyes. It shimmers, almost as if there’s a golden halo that surrounds it, another trick that the Realm has up its sleeve. You have a feeling that this one won’t be as easily ripped, crumpled up to be tossed into the nearest trash bin. It terrifies you—how closely they watch. You suppose that it was only a matter of time before they caught you. 

Quite frankly, you’re shocked it took them this long to realize you were a serial pickpocketer in the first place. 

As much as you’d love to see Jungkook get arrested and tried for defying the rules of the Realm, see his face plastered all over the newspapers and tabloids with stupid headlines like JEON JUNGKOOK: CRIMINAL? and ARRESTED FOR HAVING TOO MUCH MONEY?, and count it as a personal win, letting that happen would mean that you would have failed to do your court-ordered community service, which is a one-way ticket to prison. 

So even if Jeon Jungkook was the grouchiest, greediest, cockiest person in the entire world (which, judging by what you know about him, he probably is), and even though you would happily let his career and reputation plummet, you don’t have a choice. The two of you will either go down together or not at all. 

Resigning yourself to the fact that you will have to be within close proximity to Jeon Jungkook for the foreseeable future, you rally yourself out of bed, tugging on what you deem to be your nicest clothes and splashing your face clean. The rags you have on are probably worth a cent of what Jungkook wears on a daily basis, crisp suits and silver watches and golden earrings. He could spit on you and that would increase your net worth. But surprisingly enough, there is something empowering about the fact that Jeon Jungkook will no longer be able to ignore the plight of those in a lower class than him. Not when he, a person who has everything, will be forced to reckon with you, someone who has nothing. 

It’s easy to find your way to Jungkook’s place of employment. It’s this enormous skyscraper with his name in a golden serif font above the entryway, marking the entire building as his own. It isn’t garish and ugly, per se, but it definitely makes a statement. This, combined with the cool, chic design of his penthouse apartment, redeems him a little. At least he has taste for someone with money to burn like fireworks. 

There are two massive security guards and a whole squad of receptionists standing guard inside the building’s lobby, dressed pristinely and narrowing their eyes at anybody who dares enter. You wait across the street for a few minutes, loitering outside of a coffee shop and trying to avoid having people bump into you, watching. The only people that seem to be worthy of entering are wearing suits and dresses that cost more than what your abandoned house could sell for on the market after being restored, nodding their hellos to the security guards and receptionists as they press the elevator buttons and disappear into the building. You and your thrifted blouse would be laughed out in an instant. 

Lucky for you, you happen to have a rather foolproof method of getting yourself through those doors, and it mostly involves the fact that nobody can even see you. 

You rush across the road at the next green light and wait until you see someone heading in, the grand glass doors automatically opening when they register someone’s presence. It’s easy to slip in undetected, and you hang around in the lobby, secretly judging every single person that walks in after you. You could, quite honestly, spend all day in here, watching the receptionists tap away at their keyboards with robotic efficiency, answering calls left and right and fielding all sorts of questions from folks entering. It’s a world you have never dared step into, a world filled with wealth and power and class hierarchy, with Jeon Jungkook sitting on a pile of money at the very top of the pyramid. 

Some of the people that work in this building will never in their entire lifetime get the chance to speak with him. They will come in, day after day, working for someone who they have no personal relationship to, someone that they will never be afforded the chance to meet. 

Those people are, in your opinion, dodging a bullet. 

If only your life was as kind to you. 

A nervous young man walks in, clearly more out-of-place than anyone else. He seems to have barely bypassed security, flashing some sort of pass that lets him through the doors, but if a breeze came blowing through the lobby, he’d topple right over. He stumbles towards the receptionist desk, all of whom have phones to their ears as they furiously type on their keyboards. One woman holds up a hand, making him freeze in place. If he grinds his teeth any more they’ll all fall out before he even gets a chance to speak. 

It’s another two minutes before the lady puts the phone down and says, “How can I help you?”

“I’m—I’m, uh—I’m here for a meeting,” the man fumbles out. You’re embarrassed for him. 

“With who?” The woman asks, peering over the glasses resting on her pointy nose. She begins to look over the list of people who have meetings. It must be a rather extensive list. 

“Mr—Mr. Jeon, ma’am,” the man sputters. 

She looks doubtful. “Your name?”

“K-Kim…” he begins, staring down at his feet, “Kim Taehyung.”

“And your business with Mr. Jeon is?”

“I’m—uh, well, I’m a photographer for… for an article being written about him by F-Forbes,” he explains rather helplessly. He must have superb photography skills to make up for his extreme nervousness. You’ll be surprised if he makes it all the way to Jeon Jungkook’s office without wetting his pants out of fear. 

The lady hums to herself, looking suspicious until she finds the man’s name on her list. “Mr. Jeon’s office is on the top floor. Make two lefts and then a right. You will have to wait to be called.”

“Thank you v-very much.” He scurries towards the elevator, and you strike while the iron is hot. 

Rushing over, you manage to squeeze into the elevator right before the doors close, waiting patiently in the corner as the man tries to calm himself down, doing some sort of breathing exercise. Well, he’s got plenty of time to put his nerves aside, seeing as this building has seventy floors and Jeon Jungkook is apparently at the very top of them all. You feel bad for him, in a way. Jeon Jungkook was rude and unapologetically uncouth when you spoke to him, even if an aura of professionalism and extremely good social skills surrounds him at all times, and you don’t cower in fear at the sight of him. 

There’s no telling what he’ll be like when Taehyung walks into his office. 

One tense elevator ride later, the both of you arrive at the seventy-fifth floor, the silver doors opening to reveal a busy office space filled with people near the very top of the building’s pyramid. People like his secretary and accountants and managers, people who come into direct contact with Jeon Jungkook every day from nine to five. In a way, you pity these people for having to deal with him, but it’s not like you’ll be any different. 

Taehyung rushes out and you make sure to follow before the elevator doors crush you, following the receptionist’s instructions. Two lefts and a right. 

Jungkook’s office, much like his apartment, is not hard to miss. His name is written on a plaque on the door, and a guard stands outside with a clipboard, regulating everybody who passes in and out of the room. The walls that surround him are glass but he keeps the blinds drawn permanently, so that no one has the pleasure of seeing his face while they work tirelessly to impress him. Taehyung gives his name to the man, who checks him off on the paper on his clipboard before entering the room. 

“Sir, your 12:30 is here,” the guard says. 

Taehyung looks about ready to pass out. 

“Let them in,” Jungkook’s voice bellows in response. The man nods to Taehyung, who trembles where he stands, twiddling his thumbs like there’s no tomorrow. He shuffles in awkwardly and the door shuts behind him. Luckily, the walls are sound-proof. 

The thirty minutes of waiting is agony. You have nothing to do but rehearse in your head how this next conversation is going to go down, the scroll burning a hole in your back pocket. If Jungkook was displeased at best to see you in his apartment, you can only imagine the horror on his face when he sees you’ve infiltrated his workplace as well. Especially since you don’t have even a fraction of the money and power needed to enter the building on more professional terms. 

The good news is that, no matter what Jungkook says, no matter how many times he kicks you out of his penthouse and his skyscraper, he has no choice but to accept the deal, regardless of how long it will take for him to realize this. You never thought you’d ever be relying on the Realm to carry you through a predicament, and nor did you ever think you’d be doing their bidding, and yet, here you are. 

The door opens at one o’clock on the dot. 

“Th-thank you so much for your time again, Mr. Jeon,” Taehyung says, bowing profusely as he heads out. “I really appreciate it, you—you won’t regret it, I promise, thank you again!” You quickly rush towards the door, even making to hold it slightly open for Taehyung as he heaps his thanks on top of Jungkook. In the split second it takes for Taehyung to let the door go and for it to shut, you slip inside. 

“Finally,” Jungkook huffs out to himself, hand rubbing against his forehead. He’s not wearing a suit like you had expected, rather, a silken button-down shirt and tailored slacks. He doesn’t even have a tie. 

Well, you suppose that being your own boss has its perks. 

Jungkook’s stomach growls. “Fuck, I’m hungry.” He presses a button on the phone in his office. “I’m taking my hour lunch break now,” Jungkook informs the person on the other end. “Put all of my meetings on hold until two o’clock and not a moment earlier.”

He hangs up the phone and runs his hands through his hair, neatly straightened and styled. You hate to admit it, but there’s no wonder the man has captured the hearts of people all over the city. He’s rather good looking, the flecks of gold scattered around his office complementing his swirling brown eyes, making them look like caramel instead of cocoa. You have a hunch that, in the eyes of the general public, unattractive people instantly become good-looking the moment that they acquire wealth, power, fame, or all three, but Jeon Jungkook doesn’t need any of those things for people to think he’s beautiful. To him, they’re just bonuses. 

He turns around for a moment to look for something, probably to fish his phone out of the pocket of his jacket, and you turn. Nothing says hello like magically manifesting yourself in his office. 

“Jesus fu—!” Jungkook practically jumps out of his skin when he sees you. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I’m your minder,” you explain again. 

“I told you I don’t need a goddamn minder,” Jungkook spits out, turning around again just so he doesn’t have to see your face. “Get out.”

“Sorry, no can do,” you say, rocking back and forth on your feet. “Realm’s orders.”

“Fuck the Realm,” Jungkook says. “I don’t need a minder. Your services are unnecessary. Now get out, before I call security.”

You purse your lips. “You may want to think twice about that.” With a flourish, you whip out the scroll, a golden yellow glow still surrounding the parchment, handing it to Jungkook like a Christmas cracker. He snatches it out of your hand and unfurls it. “You should probably read the whole thing this time. It won’t rip like the last one.”

Jungkook glares at the paper like it’s ruined his life—which, judging by his attitude, it probably has—as he scans over the words, scowl worsening with every second that passes. 

“You shouldn’t frown like that, it’s not a good look on you,” you chide. At least Jungkook knows that there’s no bribing his way out of this one. 

“I told you I don’t need a minder,” he says again like it hasn’t already been made abundantly clear. 

“Well, I didn’t want to be assigned to you, but unfortunately, it looks like neither of us are going to get what we want,” you retort. “It’s this or prison, Jeon. You pick.”

“Why the fuck were you assigned to me, then?” Jungkook asks, rounding on you. “What are your powers?”

“Healing and invisibility,” you spit out. Not nearly as glamorous or lucrative as his own, but they come with their own benefits. For example, the ability to infiltrate high-level, upper class places of employment. “Maybe they thought I’d make a good babysitter since those are two skills often used with children,” you tell him pointedly. 

“I don’t need a minder,” Jungkook repeats for the umpteenth time. “I don’t misuse my magic or abuse my powers.”

“Uh,” you point out, an eyebrow raised skeptically, “I think I’d like to beg to differ.” There’s more gold in this room than miners probably found in San Francisco in the nineteenth century. The fact that nons haven’t noticed the abundance of it in his office is outrageous to you. How else do they think he and his family built up this empire?

“Please,” Jungkook says with a frown. “As if we don’t all use our powers for our own benefit. Huh? What did you do that was so terrible that you had to be assigned as my minder?”

“I pickpocket,” you explain economically. No point in sugar-coating it. Jungkook has probably already figured out you don’t come from nearly as much money as he does. “And I got caught.”

“Sucks,” Jungkook comments callously. 

“Sucks for you, too,” you fire back. “You got caught as well. Agree to the terms or go to jail, Jeon Jungkook. I don’t care. But don’t say I didn’t try to help.”

You stand there in silence for a few more seconds, letting your words dissipate into the air, sinking into the ground. Jeon Jungkook seems to have this furious battle within himself, brows furrowing as he rubs at his chin, pacing back and forth behind his desk. He knows he doesn’t have a choice. He goes to jail and his reputation is soiled. The Realm repossesses all that he has made of himself and he must start from scratch under their ruthlessly watchful eye. There will be no recovery. Only survival. 

Or, he deals with you for a couple of months until the Realm is satisfied with the both of you, and you both go on your merry way, never having to see each other again. 

You know what you’d pick if you were in his shoes. 

“Fine,” Jungkook spits out, pointing an accusing finger your way. “But you are to be invisible whenever we are in public, and that includes here.”

“Done. But you have to decrease your turning otherwise we’ll be stuck with each other forever,” you negotiate. “I’ll also have to come and live with you. Can you handle that, or are you too ashamed to have someone else inside your home?”

Jungkook scoffs. “I live in a penthouse the size of a museum. Pick whatever bedroom you fucking want. I doubt we’ll even see each other.” At least there’s one upside to having to stay with him in his massive residence.

“Fine,” you spit out, just for good measure. 

“Fine,” he counters back. Like anything about this conversation, this agreement, this goddamn life you have to live, is fine. 

Yeah, right. 

Jungkook’s penthouse is much more magnificent when you are more than two steps in the door. From where you had stood before, barely just past the door frame as he crumpled the parchment in his hand and tossed it into the trash bin, you hadn’t been able to see it in half its glory, let alone in full. When you can stand in the center of it all, eyes darting from the hallways and archways and spiral staircases leading to a rooftop pool or gym or both, it is overwhelming. Suffocating. 

His living room alone is larger than anything you have ever lived in, anything you have ever had the pleasure of calling your own. The ceiling is sky high and completely glass, streaks of sun shooting down and casting its rays on his chic furniture, deep hardwood floors. You’re so busy looking up that you nearly trip on a white rug laid out on the floor. 

“There are four bedrooms down that hallway and two down that one,” Jungkook says gruffly, flinging his keys into a bowl resting on a shelf and shrugging off his jacket, letting it hang over his forearm. How could one person possibly take up all of this space?

“Where do you sleep?” You ask. 

“That’s none of your business,” Jungkook says with a frown. 

“There’s no point in not telling me,” you remind him helpfully, “there’s only so many places you can be.”

Jungkook sighs. “It’s upstairs. But you can just sleep in any of the empty ones down here.”

“Thanks,” you deadpan. 

“Is that all you brought?” Jungkook asks with a raised eyebrow, looking at the backpack hanging loose off your shoulder. The zipper’s broken, so the outer flap is in a constant state of being folded over, but it works. 

“What, did you expect a moving truck?” You retort. 

“Ugh, forget I asked,” Jungkook says, shrugging his shoulders as he turns away from you. He begins to point around the room. “There should be some ready meals in the fridge if you’re hungry. TV’s always set to the news, but feel free to change it. Volume shouldn’t ever be over forty. Books are alphabetized by the author’s last name. No parties, though I don’t imagine you frequent those.” 

You can’t tell if that’s a jab or just him being observant, but either way, it’s true. You don’t even have any friends. 

“Fine, anything else?”

“Every bedroom has an ensuite bathroom,” Jungkook informs you. “So use that one. Don’t come into my bedroom. There’s more than enough space here for the both of us to go without seeing each other, so let’s keep it that way.”

“Aw, you mean I’m not allowed to wake up to your handsome face and infectious attitude every day?” You pout sarcastically, making Jungkook scrunch up his nose and frown. “Don’t forget that the only way you’re gonna get me out of here is if you listen to the Realm and follow my rules.”

“Yeah, which are?”

“You’re not allowed to turn at all when I’m around, whether or not you can physically see me. Every time you do is a strike. Three strikes—because I’m generous and forgiving—and I’ll report you to the Realm. The whole point of me being here is to make you stop using your powers all of the time.”

“It’s not like I’m doing any harm to people,” Jungkook defends. “You steal, what’s your excuse?”

“You use your power to add onto your already-enormous bank account,” you point out crudely. “I use mine to survive. It’s different.” Jungkook isn’t convinced. “But it doesn’t matter anyway, because I got caught and so did you and now we both have to deal with the consequences.”

He huffs to himself. 

“So do we have a deal?” You ask, glaring up at him, unrelenting. Jungkook’s chocolate brown eyes flicker as the gold around his house reflects off of his irises, like he’s trying desperately to find a way to get himself out of this before it’s too late. 

What he doesn’t realize is that the very first moment he ever turned something to gold, the very first time the object began to shimmer and spark, he was already too far gone. 

You suppose that in a way, so were you. 

“Fine,” Jungkook gruffs out, a veiny hand held out towards you. It’s stiff and cold, much in the same way that his penthouse is, that he is. This is not an agreement birthed from choice. It came from necessity, out of self-preservation. He is doing this to protect his reputation. You are doing it to protect your freedom. If all goes well, after a couple of months the two of you will never have to cross paths again. Oh, doesn’t that sound lovely? “Deal?”

You grab his hand in your own, squeezing tightly. There is no going back from this. 

“Deal.”

On the bright side, being a minder has finally given you something to do instead of stalking the streets and wasting away on your mattress on the floor. Granted, office life isn’t that much more entertaining, but at least you don’t have to be out in the summer heat anymore. 

As per your side of the deal, you remain invisible whenever Jungkook is out in public, which, quite frankly, is less frequently than you had originally anticipated. His entire life seems to go back and forth from home to work then work to home, an endless cycle, a Newton’s cradle on repeat. Maybe that’s why he’s such a prickly asshole—he doesn’t ever make time for things he enjoys. 

You thought he would at least have business dinners or fundraising events or company galas to attend. Isn’t that what most CEOs do? Flaunt their wealth to other wealthy people? Jungkook has so much money that he could easily entertain himself by one-upping all of his fellow CEO friends at every event he goes to, flashing the Rolex watch on his wrist or the fancy Italian shoes he always wears. 

But no. He wakes up, gets dressed, eats a meal from the ready-made ones wrapped in foil in his fridge, and goes to work. When he comes home, he takes off his suit jacket and shoes, eats dinner, and lounges around his penthouse. Works out sometimes, maybe watches a movie. 

Being rich always seemed to be a lot more fun than what Jungkook makes it out to be. Maybe it’s because everything in modern media is completely fake and wholly unrealistic. Or maybe he’s just purposefully making his life boring because you’re here now. 

But even if the only two places Jungkook ever goes are work and home, his personality doesn’t seem to change no matter what location he’s at. All of his employees are simultaneously frightened of him and desperate to please him, lowering their heads when he passes by their cubicle but placing finished report files and completed tasks at the edges of their desks for him to glance over as he does. You follow him like a wearied assistant (of which he actually has three, and you are just the annoying invisible one) and he acts like you aren’t even there. When Jungkook returns home with you carelessly traipsing in after him, turning visible the moment he closes the door, he shrugs off his outerwear and goes back to doing his very favorite thing in the whole world: pretending you don’t exist. 

At least that hasn’t changed since you moved in. 

The bright side is that Jungkook hasn’t turned at all since you’ve shown up. Not in his penthouse and not at work, though he is usually far too busy dealing with real-world issues to dwell on whether or not he’s got enough gold to his name. The answer is that he does, but he doesn’t give a shit about that. Too much is apparently never enough. 

Even if you are invisible, being in an office setting is somewhat unsettling to you. From a people-watching perspective, you love it, because you get an entire building of people to observe and judge, but from a personal perspective, it’s just another reminder of a life that you are not meant to live. 

All of these people in their ties and pencil skirts and uncomfortable leather shoes, fighting to beat each other out for the next promotion and desperate to please their absolutely unpleasable boss. A nine-to-five job, day in and day out. A fat check in their bank account every month. These are things that are both undesirable and unattainable to you. A glimpse into their lives doesn’t spur you to pursue a career path like theirs, it tells you that no matter what, you won’t ever be able to do what they do. 

“Sir, here are the finished analysis reports on the Lee Corporation joint stockholdings,” a proud young man says, plopping it down on Jungkook’s desk as you watch on in silence. The not-speaking part has been rather difficult, but you do get to whisper annoying things into Jungkook’s ear whenever nobody’s around. 

“They are completed?” Jungkook asks without even looking up at the man, scribbling furiously on a piece of paper. 

“Yes, sir.”

“Did I not ask for them to be completed by Friday?”

The man goes white in the face. 

“Uh—” he begins, immediately losing all confidence he had when he entered Jungkook’s office. “Well, I—”

“I don’t appreciate belated work,” Jungkook spits out. “Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

The man nods and scurries out of the office before Jungkook can say anything else. He doesn’t even seem to care.

“Wow, couldn’t even say a ’thank you’?” You chide. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you manners?”

“Late work is unacceptable,” Jungkook says. You’re lucky that his blinds are always drawn, or everyone would see him talking to apparently nobody. “There are no exceptions.”

“He was a day late,” you point out. 

“Three, if you include weekends.”

“That doesn’t make a difference; he wouldn’t have been able to turn them in over the weekend,” you tell him. 

“Don’t tell me how to do my job,” Jungkook orders sternly. He looks angry, but also foolish, because even though he can judge where you’re standing from the sound of your voice, he still can’t meet your eyes. He’s staring holes into the succulent plant on the shelf to your right. 

“I’m not,” you defend, annoyed. “I’m telling you how to be a nice person.”

“I don’t need lessons on that, either.” Jungkook frowns. “He turned in work late and was reprimanded. It’s not any different than what happens in school.”

“But you didn’t even thank him for his time or for showing up to your office, or for the fact that he did the work!” You cry out. 

“What should I be thanking him for? For making the thirty-feet trip from his desk to my office? For turning in work that he was obligated to do late?” Jungkook challenges. “He had to do those. He wasn’t doing me any favors.”

“Except he was, because if he didn’t do that work, then you would’ve had to do it,” you remind him. “Everybody here is doing work because you aren’t able to do all of it yourself. And that’s not your fault—there are only twenty-four hours in a day and you are only one person. But you should be thanking them for their contributions. Even when they turn in something a little late. It’ll do wonders for other people.”

“Are you implying that people don’t like working here?” It’s like he wants to keep this fight going. 

You sigh, loud enough for him to hear despite being a good few steps away from him. “I’m saying that everybody out there—” you say, opening the blinds that cover the walls ever so slightly, just enough for him to see out into the sea of people that sit outside, “—everybody wants so desperately for you to like them. Or at least outwardly display that you don’t hate them. And if you just said please and thank you every now and then, people wouldn’t be so afraid of you.”

Jungkook opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Instead, he shuts it like a trap and sits back down. He probably doesn’t really appreciate the fact that you’re directing him on how he controls his office on top of how he uses his magic. But it’s the truth, and he had to hear it one way or another.

“I didn’t ask for suggestions on how to run this office,” he spits out. “Next time I think advice like this is warranted, I’ll ask.” Which will be never.

“I’m here whether you like it or not,” you stand your ground. Jungkook gets to put up with you no matter what! “So I’ll tell you whatever I feel is necessary.”

Jungkook scowls. 

“Don’t frown, it ruins your pretty face,” you tease. You walk a couple of steps and lean over to stretch his lips into a smile. He stiffens up, clearly having lost a sense of humor alongside his patience. “That’s better, don’t you think?”

“I can’t wait to get rid of you,” he bites. 

“You’ll have to get rid of that attitude, first,” you counter. “Or neither of us are going anywhere.”  Entitlement and greed go hand in hand. There’s no way you’ll be able to get Jungkook to stop turning everything around him into gold without giving his personality a makeover as well. Somewhere in there is a decent human being.

You just aren’t sure if you’ll ever be able to find him.

The time spent at home is less eventful. Besides you, Jungkook has no one to shout at and be rude to, and in any case, he, for the most part, avoids you entirely. Which is understandable but totally counterproductive, because if you never interact, neither of you will ever get what you want. 

Still, there is plenty to keep yourself busy inside of his penthouse. He’s subscribed to every streaming service under the sun and has a movie theater-esque surround sound system lining the walls. He has more books than some small town libraries. His internet is stupidly fast. Even if this setup is temporary, you sure as hell aren’t going to waste a second of it. 

It is sort of weird to eat food with golden forks and knives, though. You always think you’re going to crack your teeth on your utensils. 

You and Jungkook aren’t on speaking terms right now because an hour ago you caught him turning a vase in his office gold, the metal slowly wrapping around the base of the pot like pixie dust, sparkling and shimmering as the clay was overlaid with a deep, lustrous yellow. It increased the value of the vase tenfold and sent the both of you flying back to square one. 

“Jungkook, what the hell?” You had shouted, storming into the room as Jungkook’s face turned beet red. “Just because I’m not sitting in the room with you doesn’t give you a free pass to do whatever you want.”

“It was just one pot!” Jungkook had defended himself. “I’m not even going to sell it or anything, it just looks nice. The room needed something extra.”

“I’ve upheld my side of the agreement, what’s so difficult about upholding yours?” 

“Oh yeah, like telling me how to do my job even though you have no experience in business whatsoever?” He had challenged. “I don’t think I agreed to that part of the deal.”

“Strike one, Jeon Jungkook,” you had spat out at him. “Otherwise there’s no way in hell you’re ever going to get rid of me.”

Granted, the vase did look much better in gold than it did when it was made of clay, a glazed design of ferns and vines wrapping around the base. But even if Jungkook does have a particularly good eye for interior design, it doesn’t give him a free pass to turn things just to match his chic aesthetic. How many other things has he turned when you weren’t around to shout at him? You’ll have to go through his entire house every day, taking stock of every single item inside of it, making sure that nothing has inexplicably turned to gold.

Defeated, you had returned back to the main living room, flopping around like a beached whale on the leather. Jungkook always has the television set to the news, so you put it on in the background as you count the minutes until you’re finally free. Judging from what’s happened so far, you think you’ll be here forever. 

There’s a knock on the door. You don’t recall Jungkook answering any buzzes to his home, but maybe he’s just ordered a pizza or something and it’s here. It’s nearly dinnertime, anyway. 

You wait a few seconds to see if Jungkook’s going to make any attempts at answering the door himself. When the knock repeats itself and Jungkook still doesn’t appear, you hop off of the couch to get it yourself. You’re hungry, and pizza sounds delicious right now. A massive upgrade from Campbell’s soups. 

When you open the door however, there is no pizza delivery guy behind the door. Instead, there is an extremely well-dressed couple who are smiling happily at you, albeit a little surprised to see you on the other side of the door. 

“Hello?” You ask, polite but confused. 

“Hello!” The man says happily, chortling to himself. “Who might you be?” One good look at the two of them tells you that they’re Jungkook’s parents. His dad has the same nose, and his mom has the same big, bright eyes. They would kick you to the curb if they knew who you were. 

“I’m Y/N,” you explain unhelpfully. 

“Well, Y/N, do you mind letting us inside? The air conditioning out in this hallway has always been too strong,” his dad asks. You nod awkwardly and step to the side, letting the two of them in. “Ah, looks the same as always. You must give Jungkookie that interior designer’s number, alright? He could do something much nicer with the place,” he tells his wife, who nods in agreement. She passes by the bowl that Jungkook always throws his keys into when he returns home and presses a finger to it, letting gold wrap around the edges until it’s transformed into the metal. 

“Jungkook!” You shout down the hallway, desperately hoping that he isn’t going to leave you alone with his parents. 

“What?” He shouts back. 

“We have visitors!” You call. 

Jungkook’s parents are already picking out all of the things about Jungkook’s living room layout that they would change, turning picture frames here and decorative sculptures there gold, careless and without reason. You’re standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, trying your best to look as unsurprised and as normal as possible. Luckily, you haven’t been interrogated yet, but there’s no telling what will happen if Jungkook doesn’t show up yet. 

Two minutes later, Jungkook comes strolling down the hallway, clearly uninterested, but his eyes practically bulge out of his head when he sees who’s come to say hello.

“M-Mom! Dad!” He sputters out, terrified. “What—what are you doing here?” He asks, looking at you nervously. You shrug unhelpfully. All you did was answer the door. 

“Came to pay our wonderful son a visit, of course!” His father says, guffawing loudly. He reaches an arm out and pulls Jungkook into a crushing hug. “How are you doing?”

“Fine, I mean—” Jungkook begins, speechless. “I wasn’t expecting you at all, you know.”

“I know!” His mother cries happily. “But you know that families must always stick together.”

“Yeah…” he trails off. “Listen, it’s really nice to see the both of you, but I’m kind of busy at the moment—”

“We should stay for dinner!” His mother suggests, a lightbulb going off above her head. “We haven’t seen you in so long—we have so much to catch up on! What do you say, honey?”

Jungkook’s father looks peachy keen. “Sounds like a great idea! And you can introduce us to Y/N too, hmm?”

“Okay…” Jungkook says. He turns to you and you’ve never seen him so caught off guard. With his big, wide eyes, he’s a deer in headlights. “Just, uh, give us a second, would you? Thanks.”

That’s the only warning you’re given before Jungkook is pulling you down the hallway and into the nearest bedroom, slamming the door shut behind the both of you. The sound of the wood hitting the frame makes you jump as Jungkook furrows his brows and turns to face you directly. 

“Alright, here’s the deal,” he says, looking you dead in the eyes as you stare up at him, unimpressed. “My parents can’t know that I’ve been assigned a minder. They just can’t. They’ve trusted me to run this business and to be in control of my life and I don’t even want to think about what they’ll do if they find out why you’re really here.”

“Okay, so?” You say with a frown. “I’ll turn invisible. You don’t have to worry about it.”

“But they’ve already seen you, you opened the goddamn door,” Jungkook says with a sigh, clearly exasperated. He rubs his forehead before his hand makes its way through his hair, brushing through the long, dark strands. 

“Well, sorry for not wanting to leave whoever was outside hanging,” you retort. 

“No, it’s fine, whatever,” Jungkook says. He paces around the room slightly, eyes glossing over the still life painting hung up on the wall and the door to the walk-in closet. He pauses in front of it for a moment, thinking, before he rounds on you. “Can I trust you to pretend to be my girlfriend for just one night while they’re here?”

“I’m sorry, what?” 

“Please? They seem to already be under the impression that we’re dating anyway, and I don’t want to have to think of a different explanation for you,” Jungkook pleads. He’s desperate. 

“Let me get this straight: you want me, your minder, to fake being your girlfriend for your parents?” You ask, punctuating every word. This is worse than actually being his minder. 

Jungkook nods. “Just while they’re here. And then we can go back to avoiding each other. Please?” 

And for once, when you see Jeon Jungkook’s stupidly beautiful face, you don’t feel angry, or resentful, or envious. You feel… sympathy. It’s easy being rich and powerful, even easier when you don’t even need to work for your money, but parents are parents, no matter how much gold is in your pocket. 

Besides, it’s not like you rejecting him will have much of an effect on the grand scheme of things, anyway. You do, and then Jungkook has to spend an awkward night with his parents and you won’t accomplish anything. 

“Fine,” you say, begrudgingly so. “But only for tonight.”

“Oh God, thank you,” Jungkook says, and he actually means it. He dashes into the walk-in closet and pulls out a summery day dress, all flowy and floral, coming down to right above your knees. “Here, put this on. You know I don’t give a shit about what you wear but my parents will.”

“Why do you have this?” You ask, holding the hanger in your hand. One touch of the fabric and you can already feel the craftsmanship, the material sturdy and soft.

“An old hookup or something, probably.” Jungkook shrugs, nonchalant. 

You decide not to question whether or not you are about to wear something that Jungkook has had sex with someone in and head into the closet to change. From inside, you can hear Jungkook pacing back and forth in the bedroom, no doubt trying to come up with a believable story as to why you’ve suddenly appeared in his life and where you had come from. 

When you emerge, Jungkook stops dead in his tracks. This dress is easily the most expensive (and clean) thing you’ve ever put on your body, draping seamlessly along your hips and smoothing over all of the parts of your body you’ve never been too fond of. The sensation is pleasant but uncomfortable, as you have always vastly preferred your own clothes to other people’s, but wearing this at least doesn’t make you feel like you live in an abandoned house on the edge of town. 

“Wow,” Jungkook says dumbly, looking at you with his lips parted like a fish, mouth agape. He scratches at the nape of his neck and coughs. “You look kinda good.”

“How thoughtful of you to say,” you chide, basking in the feeling of finally catching Jungkook off guard. 

“Hopefully my parents won’t be here too long,” Jungkook says as he opens the door, letting you exit first. “Normally, they stick around just long enough to tell me about all of the things in my life that I’m currently doing wrong or should improve upon, and then they leave.”

“Fun.” It doesn’t sound very fun at all. 

“At least this time they won’t be grilling me about a girlfriend,” Jungkook says, offering you a grateful smile as you return to the main living space, where Jungkook’s parents are in the middle of turning some of the decorative trinkets on his shelves gold. “Sorry,” he begins, catching his parents’ attention. “We were just talking. Y/N had to change.”

“She looks lovely in that dress, did you buy it for her?” His mother asks. You send a small smile of thanks. 

“Yes, of course,” Jungkook lies. You think not knowing the origins of this dress is best for both you and him. He shuffles the both of you into the kitchen, an awkward hand on the small of your back. If you were a third party watching the two of you, you could sniff out the fake gestures and affection from a mile away. No two people in love are this stiff around each other. 

His parents wait in the living space, blissfully ignorant, as the two of you fumble around in the kitchen in a last-minute attempt to scrounge up something resembling an acceptable meal. You, admittedly, do not use a kitchen fairly often, and stick to pouring the four of you some wine as Jungkook fishes through his fridge and cabinets. He eventually decides on heating up a pre-made pasta dish, filled with all sorts of vegetables you couldn’t name even if you tried. It smells good, at least. 

For someone who seems to rely entirely on a personal chef to do most of his cooking, Jungkook knows his way around the kitchen fairly well, bouncing from one end to the other as if he’s running on a mental timer. Granted, he isn’t actually cooking anything, but compared to you, he may as well be a top chef at a five-star restaurant. Ten minutes later and he’s got a mouth-watering spaghetti dish, topped with vegetables and what looks to be an herb garnish, a side salad, and four glasses of wine that you so expertly poured. 

Unfortunately, with his parents around, you and Jungkook don’t get to go through your usual meal ritual of sitting as far away from each other as physically possible and not talking whatsoever, sitting down next to each other in his fancy suede dining chairs as his parents take the two seats opposite you. Jungkook’s dining table only seats six, despite the sheer size of his actual dining room, and quite frankly, you have never seen him actually use it for what it’s meant for: dining. 

“Delicious, did you make this?” His father asks, already reaching over to serve himself some. 

“Y/N helped.” No you didn’t.

The serving utensils then move to Jungkook’s mother, who does not turn them into gold, instead opting for a baby tomato, which she places in her drink to serve as some sort of extremely niche ice cube. You can’t imagine how good that will taste. Jungkook’s father laughs at his mother, who is obviously proud of herself. Jungkook forces himself to chuckle ever so slightly, and you crack a very helpless smile. It doesn’t really take a genius to figure out where Jungkook got his turning habits from. 

“So, Y/N,” Jungkook’s father begins, catching you right as you shove an entire forkful of pasta into your mouth, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk getting ready for the winter, “how long have you known our son?”

“Uh, a couple of—”

“A couple of months,” Jungkook interrupts, speaking louder than usual. “We met at the Park Gala that they hosted, do you remember?”

You kick Jungkook’s shin under the table, making him wince. 

“Ah, yes.” His mother nods in recollection. “Unfortunately we were on that cruise through France, so we couldn’t make it. A shame, we would have loved to meet you then. Are you a friend of the Parks?”

“An associate,” Jungkook explains as vaguely as possible. “Y/N works in law.”

“Ah, law,” Jungkook’s father says romantically, twirling his fork around in the air. “The conscience of business.”

“Yeah,” you say, forcing out a small laugh. The less you say, the better. Though it is ironic that you now apparently work in law, considering your favorite activity is breaking it. You suppose that nobody knows the law better than its criminals. 

“Where are you from, Y/N? Do we know your parents?” This is starting to sound less like a dinner conversation and more like an interrogation. 

“Y/N actually built herself up,” Jungkook covers for you. Lord knows revealing your true background would send both of his parents storming out of the building. “She doesn’t like to talk about her parents very much.”

That’s one way of putting it. 

“Ah, what a shame,” his mother tuts, shaking her head. “We’d love to meet them.”

“Yeah…” you agree distantly, making a mental note to give Jungkook a good shove when this is all over. Well, two can play at this game. “Jungkook is teaching me a lot about how you guys run your business.” You add pointedly, earning a leg kick in return. “It’s very interesting to see from a law perspective.” More like from a human perspective. 

“Oh, you must be very impressed,” his father says proudly, adjusting the collar of his shirt. “We’ve all worked extremely hard to get where we are.” Because turning things to gold at the press of a finger is truly such a taxing job.

“I’m certainly surprised,” you say back, sending a patient but stiff smile their way. They return the favor easily. Maybe you’re more like these people than you thought. “It’s a big change from what I’m used to.” Jungkook smacks his leg against yours, and you retaliate not a moment afterwards.

“I’m sure,” his mother says, voice sickly sweet. “But you’ll be able to adjust in no time. It’s definitely a level up, is it not?”

Jungkook looks like a lost child in a grocery store aisle, eyes wide as they flit back and forth between you and his parents, hurling thinly-veiled insults at each other like it’s nobody’s business. 

“It’s different,” you respond. 

“Well, I’m sure that Jungkook is doing all that he can to accommodate you,” his father says. “Sometimes the people he chooses to date are… not ideal for this sort of lifestyle. We hope that you are able to adjust quickly. We understand that this is a lot.”

“I certainly hope that I’m a good match, then,” you finish, because something inside of you can’t bear to let Jungkook’s stuffy, elitist parents get the last word. 

The rest of the meal is rather silent, save for a few mindless comments about how poorly Jungkook’s decorated his dining room. You and Jungkook have been warring underneath the dinner table all evening, your shins undoubtedly sporting bruises, because apparently everything the two of you are saying to his parents is wrong. Jungkook’s parents either don’t know or don’t care, because they don’t say anything about the tension that settled over the table like a cloud of fog, thick and potent. 

When everyone’s finished eating, Jungkook’s parents head straight to the door, determining that their contributions to his evening and his penthouse are enough—for now. Who knows if or when they’ll return. You and Jungkook have no choice but to see them off, rounding out the night just as you started: fake, empty smiles. 

“It was lovely to meet you, Y/N,” his mother tells you, hand clutching her purse. “I hope that we may see each other again sometime soon.”

“Yes, I am looking forward to it,” you say with glee, knowing that the chances of you never having to speak to her again are well in your favor. 

“Nice work, son,” his father says, a heavy hand on Jungkook’s shoulder. “Just let us know if you ever need anything.”

“Will do,” Jungkook promises distantly. You can tell that Jungkook doesn’t ask his father for advice too often. 

You bid your goodbyes and Jungkook shuts the door behind them, and it’s almost as the atmosphere immediately begins to clear, the air conditioning cycling out the tension, like a breath of fresh air. 

“Ugh, thank God that’s over,” you huff out, already itching to get out of this dress and back into your own clothes. It was gorgeous at first, but now it’s just an ugly reminder. 

“Come on, it wasn’t that bad,” Jungkook says. 

“’Wasn’t that bad’?” You repeat. It’s as if the words went in through Jungkook’s one ear and right out the other. “Are you serious? It was unbearable. Your parents were judging me from the moment I opened the door. No wonder you’ve never had a lasting girlfriend. I couldn’t think of anyone who would want to deal with that.”

“Excuse me?” Jungkook says, rounding on you as fire burns in his eyes. “What do you mean, ’that’?”

“I mean that I don’t know how on Earth people just accept the fact that in other people’s eyes, they’ll never be good enough?” You tell him like it’s obvious, because it is. This sort of life has been so ingrained into Jungkook’s head that he doesn’t even recognize it as unwelcoming and stifling. “I couldn’t stand being your girlfriend. Your parents are judgy and rude, and you all act like people who don’t come from as much money and power as you have no business sitting where you sit.”

“So your best approach was to shade and insult my parents in return?” He combats. “I would hate to be your boyfriend. My parents get more aggressive when people fight them, but you shove me under the table when I try to get you to back down? Just so you can have the final word to two people you’ll probably never see again?”

“The fact that anyone has dated you astounds me,” you tell him. 

“The fact that nobody’s dated you doesn’t astound me,” Jungkook spits back. 

You frown, embers flaring in your boiling blood. What, did Jungkook think you were going to enjoy yourself tonight? By pretending to be some sort of ditzy, desperate-to-please girlfriend? “You’re welcome for doing you a favor and not just straight up telling your parents you’ve been assigned a minder because you can’t handle your own powers. Don’t expect me to do it again.”

“I’m not planning on it,” Jungkook mumbles to himself, just loud enough for you to hear. 

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

You and Jungkook march down opposite hallways, desperate for this night to be over. You tear off the dress and let it sit at the foot of the bed, taunting you. 

There is no way in hell you are ever leaving this place. 

The time spent at work is allocated half towards following Jungkook around like an invisible puppy with a personal vendetta against him, making sure that he doesn’t turn, and half towards wishing that something actually interesting will happen. Jungkook runs so tight a ship that nobody ever seems to want to do anything fun or exciting, no doughnuts, no inside jokes, no pranks. Just an endless cycle of trying desperately to please the unpleasable.

Admittedly, nowadays, you don’t really mind being here as much as you used to, when you would mentally criticize every person that walked through the glass doors to Jungkook’s office, hands filled with stacks of paper and manila folders, plopped onto Jungkook’s desk one by one. Jungkook’s started to keep extra food up in his office, the mini-fridge by his bookshelves constantly filled with takeaway salads and fruit. Apples are a definite no-go because they’re too loud, and you can only ever risk eating salads when nobody’s around to hear you pop the plastic top off of the container, but other than that, it’s nice.

Jungkook has pretty good taste in food, too, which is an added bonus. Though anything is a leg up from what you normally eat.

And even though you’ve begun to start roaming around, exploring the nooks and crannies that line the clean-cut layout, your favorite place to be is Jungkook’s office. He’s got these magnificent floor-to-ceiling glass windows, with a view directly over the biggest park in the city, thousands of feet up in the air. From up here, it almost feels as though you’re looking down at a different world, a different universe. It’s difficult to imagine that everyone down there, every ant-sized person walking along the sidewalk or resting on a park bench or ordering from a food stand, has lives of their own.

Especially when they are but specks of dust in yours.

Jungkook looks at this view forty hours a week. You wonder if he ever gets sick of it.

The door to Jungkook’s office creaks open as you’re staring out of the windows, watching as the clouds pass overhead. They look like little white dogs, like cotton candy, like angel wings.

“Mr. Jeon?”

The owner of the voice is the same man you berated Jungkook for shouting at a few weeks ago, the one who had turned in an analysis report a day late. He seems just as frightened of Jungkook now as he did back then, and it makes you wonder if any of Jungkook’s employees aren’t afraid of him.

“Here’s the completed budget report for the Lee Corporation for last fiscal year,” the man says, reaching a trembling hand out to lay a manila folder on Jungkook’s desk. Jungkook only looks up once he sees it out of his periphery, hand pausing mid-write, pen still hovering over the papers on his desk.

He meets the man’s eyes, and when he does, he cracks a small smile, this sort of barely-there grin, lips curling upwards ever so slightly. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

It’s as if the man has won the lottery. He thanks Jungkook quickly before bouncing out of the room, steps much lighter, like a weight has been lifted off of his shoulders. You watch as he leaves the room, a smile etching itself onto your face. It’s rather incredible what a simple ‘thank you’ can do to people.

You don’t say anything to Jungkook, instead just turning back around to gaze out of the window. There’s an entire city below your feet, one that bustles around like bees in a hive, everyone with a place to be and things to do. There is this strange but comforting feeling of insignificance, one where you feel as though you could disappear and nobody would notice a thing. The rest of the world can and will move on without you. But that doesn’t mean that your life means nothing. It means that your life can be whatever you want to make of it, because in the grand scheme of things, nobody else will know what you have done.

History is like that, too. You must be remarkable to be remembered. But that doesn’t mean the unremarkable people were forgotten. They touched lives, too.

Staring out the window as the clouds swim over the sun, a light grey shadow casting itself over the park, you feel at peace.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?”

You jump at the voice, Jungkook’s presence next to you having gone totally unnoticed. You didn’t even hear him get up from his chair.

“How did you know I was here?” You ask.

“I could sense it," Jungkook says with a grin, making you raise an eyebrow. You’re invisible. “I’m kidding, I saw you come over here a bunch last week when you first got into my office and I figured you’d probably still be here.”

“You figured correctly,” you tell him.

“You know, I don’t spend enough time looking out these windows,” Jungkook admits, and you aren’t sure if it’s to you or himself. “I’m always staring at my computer or writing something at my desk with my head down. I’ve got the best view in the whole city and sometimes, I don’t even remember what it looks like.”

“You work hard,” you tell him, because that’s something that is undeniable about who he is and what he does. “But you deserve to give yourself a break, every now and then.”

“For lunch breaks, the first thing I do is get out of my office. I spend all day in there and when it’s finally time for me to put work on pause, I rush out of the room like it’s on fire,” Jungkook comments. “Maybe I should stay up here every once in a while instead.”

“It’s not like I’ll be going anywhere,” you joke.

“You can, you know,” Jungkook tells you. “You don’t have to stay up here all day.”

“I know,” you say. “But I don’t really mind it. I like being here. It’s calming, in a way.” In a way that you can’t explain. Like you’re stuck in freeze frame while everyone else moves around you. Like you’re watching a movie about everybody’s lives but your own. Like you’re a spectator in your own body. “Plus, the view is gorgeous.”

“It is,” Jungkook agrees.

You stand there in silence for a few more moments, the only sounds filling the room your inhales and exhales, soft and slow, your hearts beating in time. Jungkook is more than a foot away from you but here, in his office, looking out over the world, he has never felt closer.

“Thank you,” you whisper, letting the words hang in the air in front of you.

“For what?” Jungkook asks.

“For listening to me.”

You feel Jungkook turn to you, and when you dare to look up at him, you meet his hazy brown eyes, warm and sparkly. He looks like a goddamn celebrity, like a magazine cover come to life, crisp shirt collars and fancy Italian shoes, glossy brown hair and perfect skin. He smiles at you, this homey sort of thing that makes you feel like summer is running through your veins, like the rays of the sun are pressing against your skin.

“Of course,” he tells you.

Jungkook is a lot of things. He’s unabashedly gorgeous and outrageously wealthy. He walks around like he owns everything that he touches. His house is clean and chic and minimalist, almost like nobody lives there at all. He’s determined and a workaholic, and hates admitting when he’s wrong.

But maybe, just maybe, in the white afternoon light of his office, the rest of the world underneath his feet, standing next to you as the two of you stare out in a city you call your own, he’s not that bad.

Being alone in Jungkook’s penthouse is, to put it lightly, absolutely terrifying.

It’s hard to believe that Jungkook--and maybe a girlfriend for a brief period--has occupied this entire space on his own, no one else to talk to, no one else to spend time with, no one to occupy his massive couches or fill up the chairs in his dining room.

You’ve always wondered why rich people buy the biggest houses. Sure, it’s because they’re rich, and because they can afford it, but it’s impossible for one person, or even two, to make the entire place feel like their own. You leave countless rooms untouched, meant for guests that you never have and parties that you never host. It’s like you’ve moved into half of a house, a quarter of a mansion. What’s the point of having so much space if you don’t ever have anyone to fill it up?

Normally you wouldn’t leave Jungkook’s side, following him around the city whenever he has errands to run or needs to dash back to work to pick up something he had forgotten. But Jungkook hasn’t been turning anything lately, even when you sleep in four hours later than he does, even when he stays up into the early hours of the morning while you pass out before it’s midnight. It’s like he’s somehow lost the will for his magic entirely, like it’s vanished from his body.

Well, you’re not complaining. That just means you’re one step closer to finishing your sentence.

Jungkook’s penthouse feels bigger when he’s not around. Even though you hardly ever see each other while you’re at home, the mere knowledge of his presence makes you feel like you’re not alone. Makes you feel like there is someone else in this little corner of the world.

Everything in here has always looked untouched. Like it doesn’t belong to anybody, like a house listing come to life. His marble counters are always empty, his cabinets always closed and organized. His books are always alphabetized and the stack of art books on his coffee table has never been touched. All of the bedrooms look like they belong in a hotel. The bathrooms look like they belong in a museum.

Jungkook’s house has never felt like a home but then again, neither has yours.

Still, if you had to choose between living in your abandoned shack at the edge of town or living in an enormous penthouse in the center of the city, you would never look back at that old, dilapidated building. The difference between you and Jungkook is that Jungkook chooses to live in this tragically empty place.

You don’t think you’ll ever be able to understand Jungkook’s life. Not just the technicalities of the company he runs, the economics and business that he has spent his whole life mastering, but also the way he sees the world in terms of money and power, how everything has some sort of value, even people. Even you. His biggest concern has always been himself. How much money he has matters, how many investments his company owns matters, how the public views him matters. He has spent so long crafting this perfect image of himself that he’s willing to spend as much money as necessary to maintain it. 

Jungkook doesn’t even look at the total on the card reader when he purchases things. He simply tugs his silver card out of a sleek black wallet and swipes, crumpling the receipt up in his hand before shoving it into the pocket of his jeans. He comes back home to a gigantic penthouse with a gym and his pool and more bedrooms than he can count on both hands, to a personal chef in his kitchen making him five-star meals to last him the rest of the week. 

Money is never on his mind, but it is always on yours. 

When will you get enough to pay off your phone bill, will you ever be able to afford a repairman to fix the broken, exposed lightbulb above the back door, how many Campbell’s soups can you buy and still have enough funds to last you until the next day? What if, God forbid, the city comes knocking on your door and either evicts you or orders you to pay up for the three years you’ve been living in that house, rent-free? What will you do then?

Life is by no means easy for either of you, but Jeon Jungkook has never had to want for anything. If it isn’t handed to him, he works for it himself. If he can’t buy it, he’ll just make more money. If he doesn’t already own it, what’s stopping him?

People dream of having Jungkook’s life. People fear having yours. 

Alone in Jungkook’s apartment, the differences between the two of you have never been clearer. 

Your greatest fear is the fact that, in the past few weeks you have spent here, you are already becoming used to it. You are dreading going back to where you were before, stealing money from people off of the streets and living in a house in such disrepair that local nons think that it’s haunted. You fear that you will never want to leave. 

It’s such a terrifying feeling, isn’t it? Becoming attached to something. Feeling as though your life will be worse without it. Knowing that your life will be worse without it. 

There are parts of you that make you wish that life wasn’t so unfair. 

The living room is three times the size of the dining room but you hate eating there, sitting at an empty table with no one to talk to but suede chairs, reminding you that you don’t even have any friends to invite anyway. At least in the living room you can sit on the couch and watch television and pretend that you have at least some semblance of a life. 

You pick at a pre-made salad that has too much lettuce and not enough everything else—Jungkook needs a new chef, you decide, plucking out all of the croutons and slices of cheddar cheese, when the front door swings open, slamming against the wall adjacent to it as Jungkook storms inside. 

“Oh my God, what happened to you?” You exclaim, eyes practically bulging out of your head as you jump off of the couch. Even from here, you can see the dark bruising around Jungkook’s eye, purple and blue, the busted up knuckles clenched around the bag he’s carrying. There’s even a small streak of blood on his upper left cheek, already beginning to scab. 

“Nothing, I’m fine,” he says, wiping away the blood on his lip with the back of his hand. 

“No, you’re not,” you tell him, rushing up to meet him in the middle of the foyer, standing in front of him as you look up at his face with wide eyes. He waits there patiently, avoiding your gaze, steely eyes looking elsewhere, as you reach up to hold his head in your hands, tilting it from side to side. “What happened to you?”

“Some dudes jumped me in the parking lot on the way back,” Jungkook says casually. You’d almost believe he didn’t feel anything if he doesn’t wince when you press a gentle fingertip along the bruise on his jawline. He meets your frightened expression and smirks wickedly, something glinting in his eyes. “Don’t worry, I got ‘em good.”

“Are you alright?” You ask him, even though it’s obvious he’s not. “You aren’t seriously injured or anything, are you?”

“Don’t worry about it, Y/N,” Jungkook says with a sigh, even as he obeys your movements and moves his body pliantly to the feeling of your hands pressing against his skin. Most of the visible damage seems to be to his face and hands, and quite frankly, you’re not exactly sure if you want to see what’s underneath his dress shirt. “I’m strong. I work out and eat healthy and everything. I’ll be better in no time.”

“No, are you kidding?” You say, reaching out to grab his hand without a second thought, pulling him towards the nearest bathroom. “You can’t just leave it like this. Here, let me heal you.”

“I don’t need you to patch me up or anything,” Jungkook resists, frowning as you sit him down on the edge of the bathtub and begin to fish through his bathroom cabinets. “First aid isn’t in that one.”

“No, you idiot,” you chide him. “I’m not gonna patch you up. Aren’t you forgetting that I’m a healer?” 

“So what are you gonna do, then?” 

You finally find the first aid kit and pull it out, revealing rolls of gauze and bottles of rubbing alcohol and disinfectant. There’s even a couple of rows of Ibuprofen. “Well, you should be patched up anyway,” you decide, turning back to look at Jungkook’s face as he waits obediently on the edge of the tub. “But I can heal you faster than what time and medicine can do on their own.”

“You don’t have to,” Jungkook says softly. 

“Please, of course I do,” you reply instantly. You’re not gonna let Jungkook walk around like that. “We can’t have your pretty face all messed up, now can we?”

Jungkook cracks a small smile but it’s obvious that the simple gesture alone pains him, making him wince slightly as his lips turn upwards. You wet a face cloth with cold water and press it against Jungkook’s bruises, looking intently at his features as you move the cloth around, letting the cold water draw out the heat that sizzles beneath his skin. Jungkook watches you the whole time, his eyes never leaving yours, even as your brows furrow in concentration, determined to fix Jungkook back up so he’s brand new. Slowly, the bruises begin to fade, going from an angry violet to a light lavender, and then to a pink that could almost be mistaken for a heavy blush.

It feels weird, knowing that he’s right there. Knowing that he’s watching you, eyes following yours as they scan his face. His clean-cut jawline is a little swollen, perfect skin angry and marked, but his eyes are still the same. Still wide and bright, like a young child, like a baby deer learning to walk for the first time. They look almost caramel in the yellow light of the bathroom, flecks of gold to mirror the accents in the room. 

There’s something about them that makes you not want to turn away. 

When the bruises have faded, leaving only petal pink remnants along his skin, you move onto the small cut along his cheek. It’s rough and jagged, like the skin had been torn right through, a nick from a fingernail or a knuckle. It’s not long, but it is somewhat deep. You imagine it might scar permanently. 

Kneeling down in front of him, you pull out some rubbing alcohol and a cotton pad, dabbing a gentle amount onto the round before moving closer, holding his head in your hand as you reach out. 

“This might sting,” you say, like he doesn’t already know. 

“That’s alright,” Jungkook tells you. “Fix me up, doctor.”

At his cue, you softly press the cotton pad against the scab, rubbing away at it until it comes off cleanly, leaving only fresh, exposed skin behind. For wounds like these, a cloth won’t do. Your mother used to tell you that healing didn’t come from your hands, it came from your heart. That even if your fingertips had the magic, it was your heart that had the power to wield it. 

Slowly, you rest your palm against his cheek, rubbing your thumb along the cut. Jungkook blinks, big eyes shimmering, as you do so, and you feel trapped in his gaze. Like you couldn’t turn away even if you tried. Like you almost wouldn’t want to. His skin is baby soft, perfect, a far cry from the calloused pads of your fingertips, worn from so many days and nights out on the streets. 

There is magic in your fingertips, surely, but there is something different in your heart. Something that you don’t think you have the words to explain.

The cut seals up instantly, the skin patching over itself until nothing is left but a mark, a little scar that will stay there forever. And yet, you stay there, locked in his magnetic pull, like tearing away will hurt you rather than him. The cut is healed, and his bruises are fading, and there is no reason to stay like this. 

And yet. 

“There,” you whisper, watching the words appear between the two of you, lingering like ghosts. “All better.”

Jungkook grins. It doesn’t hurt him, but something in you feels a sharp jolt, an ache. Like a spark in the pit of your belly. Like magic in your veins. 

Jungkook has been tearing his hair out over this one manila folder in front of him for the past twenty minutes. Every ten seconds he writes something down before scribbling it out, the ink bleeding through the paper to the next one. He flips through the files relentlessly, carelessly, until they’re all out of order and splayed all over his desk. He’s instructed the guard outside not to let anyone in, even if it’s some sort of emergency. 

You’ve seen Jungkook at work a lot, but you’ve never seen him like this. Even his anguished sighs are difficult to listen to. 

Creeping over to the wall that overlooks the rest of the office, Venetian blinds shielding the both of you from view, you crack open a slat, peeking out at everyone else. None of them pay any attention to Jungkook’s office, too busy worrying about the next report they have to complete and all of the office meetings they have to attend, so you take it as a good opportunity to turn visible. Just for a little bit. 

“You alright?” You ask, nearly making Jungkook fall out of his seat at the sound of your voice. 

“What?” He asks, surprised. “Oh, yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”

“What’s the matter?” You ask, because you’ve never seen Jungkook as stressed out as he is now. “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to organize this new collective to monitor our investing habits so we can assess where investments need to be divvied up into in order for clients to find us worth of their own investments as opposed to other companies,” Jungkook explains, though he sounds positively exhausted while doing so, like the very mention of what he’s slaving over is enough to send him over the edge. “But no one can agree on how we can use this information to promote this company to our clients and the public. People invest in both of us either way.”

“You want people to invest more money in your company, don’t you?” You ask with a raised eyebrow. 

“Well, yeah.” 

“How much money does this company give to small businesses? To nonprofits and charity?”

Jungkook frowns, scrunching up his nose as he thinks. He clicks around on his computer for a few seconds before saying, “About five percent.”

“And your investments are public, correct?”

“Yes.” Jungkook nods. 

“You should be giving way more than five percent of this company’s investments to small, local businesses and charity,” you tell Jungkook, already worming your way behind his desk to look at what he’s looking at. You point to the numbers on his screen, single-digit percentages, some even less than one, being sent to local businesses, nonprofits, and charities. “Look at this. Ninety-five of your investments go right into stocks. If you invested more money into nonprofits and local businesses, people would see you taking the time to help boost the local economy and the organizations that serve it for free. Then, those businesses would invest in you in return, and clients would see that you’re investing in noble causes and give you more money as a thanks, which can then be funnelled back to small businesses and nonprofits.”

It’s a rather roundabout sort of proposal and you’re almost positive that it has no real footing anywhere in real economics and finance, but it makes sense to you. If you had money to invest in major companies, you would choose the ones that invest in the things that will benefit you, like local businesses and nonprofits. If you saw that the companies you were giving money to were simply giving it away to the stock market, you’d pull your money out. 

You know that the stock market is nothing but the world’s biggest economic gamble, but that doesn’t mean that you have to gamble with it. Companies that stand for what you stand for are much more appealing than companies with a bigger investment bank behind them. 

You turn to Jungkook, who is squinting at his computer screen as he fumbles around with the numbers, flicking from Excel sheet to Excel sheet, bouncing back and forth between the information online and the files on top of his desk. 

“Is that stupid?” You ask, breaking the silence. It’s not as if people know you for your groundbreaking economic policies. 

Jungkook spares one more glance over all of his files, and turns up to look at you. “No,” he tells you with a shake of his head. “It’s not.”

“Really?” You’re actually impressed with yourself. 

“Yeah,” Jungkook agrees happily. “You’re right—I’d want to know that my investments were going to a company with good morals that lifts up local businesses. It would encourage me to invest more, too.”

“It’s not a very sound economic theory…” You admit. Jungkook’s probably seasoned in how investments and the stock markets work, charts upon charts of client behavior that shapes the way he organizes his company. And you? You don’t have enough money to even buy food some days. 

“It doesn’t have to be,” Jungkook assures you. “Theory is total bullshit anyway, because nobody can predict what will happen with the economy. But human nature has always been reliably good. People like to know that their money is going to a good cause.”

“So, it helps?” You ask with a smile. 

Jungkook nods. “It does. It’s actually a great idea, Y/N. You might have a future in business.”

You scoff. “Me? I don’t know the first thing about this stuff.”

Jungkook shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. You don’t need to. You’re a good person who thinks about everyone, Y/N. That’s why you’d be good at business. Because your clients can trust you, and you’ll actually put your money where your mouth is.” 

“I guess,” you say unhelpfully. Just because you think about others doesn’t make you especially remarkable. It makes you human. Isn’t that how everyone’s supposed to be? “I just don’t think about clients and money like you do. Money’s always been really valuable to me, since I’ve never had much of it, but you guys see it as expendable. I need to know where my money goes, I don’t want to see it just vanish into the hands of someone else.” Jungkook’s nodding along, eyes looking intently at your own, like he’s committing the words you say to his memory. “I just think that people and companies with tons of money have a duty to give back to those who are less fortunate. That’s all.”

“That’s noble of you,” Jungkook says. 

“It’s just common sense,” you explain. “Why wouldn’t you want to do something like that?”

Jungkook heaves a sigh, a long, winded sort of one, like there’s a whole conversation behind it that he wishes he could have with you. But instead, he just shakes his head, a fond smile lacing its way across his features. He chuckles to himself. “Maybe you aren’t cut out for business after all, Y/N,” he tells you softly. “You have too big a heart.”

And maybe that’s true. Maybe you’re too kind, too generous, to ever make it in business. To succeed without losing every penny to your name. 

But if that’s the case, then where does Jungkook stand?

When Jungkook stays at work late, the two of you eat dinner together. 

There’s just something so demoralizing about coming back to an empty house, letting the hollow sound of the door slamming shut echo throughout the room, and then marching off in different directions to spend the rest of the night alone. When it’s dark, and late, and you’re starving, it’s all you can do not to beg Jungkook to eat with you. Even if in silence. 

By the time you get home, your stomach is just about ready to consume the art books sitting in a neat stack at the top right corner of the coffee table. You begin to clear off some space for the both of you to eat as Jungkook heads towards the refrigerator, when not three seconds after, you hear him swear, “Oh, shit.”

“What’s the matter?” You call out. 

“We’re out of premade meals!” Jungkook shouts back. What? You could have sworn there were at least two full tupperwares still available. Actually, maybe you had eaten them for lunch… 

“Really?” You get up from the coffee table and make your way into the kitchen, where Jungkook is standing in front of a refrigerator with the entire middle section wiped clean, empty shelves mocking the both of you as you glare at them. “Oh, wow. Really.”

“I didn’t know we ate that much,” Jungkook comments, shocked at the sight before him. 

“What are we gonna do?” You ask. You’re hungry. 

“What do you mean?” Jungkook says with a laugh. He kneels down and begins to pull vegetables from the drawers, plucking different bottles from inside the fridge door and plastic cartons from the top shelves, the ones that you never dare touch. “We’ll cook something, obviously.”

“Can’t we just order takeout?”

“You don’t wanna cook something with me?” Jungkook asks, eyes wide and pouty. You shake your head guiltily. Is ordering a pizza really so much to ask? Jungkook narrows his eyes at you suspiciously, a grin pulling at his lips, before he nods knowingly. “Oh, I get it.”

“Get what?” You challenge. 

“You don’t know how to cook.”

“What? I know how to cook!” You cry out, aghast. True, your past meals have mostly involved warming food up in the microwave, but that counts, in your book. Jungkook frowns in disbelief. “I know how to use a microwave.”

Jungkook tosses his head back and laughs, this warm, hearty sound filling up the kitchen, before he starts placing all of the containers and bottles and vegetables he pulled out from the fridge onto the counter. “Okay, we’re going to make something together.”

“Seriously?” You say, borderline whining. “Can’t you just do it?”

“No,” Jungkook rolls his eyes, “because you have to help me. Kitchen’s orders.”

“You’re the kitchen!”

“Exactly,” Jungkook says, smiling to himself. He pulls out some more ingredients from the cabinets, hands deftly reaching for the exact ones he wants, until you have a collection of food, seasonings, and sauces on the countertop, and an apparent recipe to be made. 

“What are we making?” You ask, looking down at everything on the counter. All of these things can’t go into one dish… can they?

“An old family recipe,” Jungkook says. “Kimchi jjigae. It’s kimchi stew.”

“Is it easy?” 

Jungkook grins something wicked, something devilish. “It’s fun.”

He sets out to put a pot on the stove, turning the gas on, bouncing back and forth between the stovetop and the counter as you stand there like a floundering fish, waiting for him to either give you an instruction or do everything himself.

“Can you cut the green onions?” Jungkook asks as he adds water and what looks to be tiny little fish to the pot, reaching behind his back to gesture wildly at the ingredients sitting on the marble. 

“Which are those?” You scan the countertop. Your familiarity with food and recipes extends about as far as anything non-perishable that comes in a tin can. Never in your life have you seen so much laid out in front of you, all meant to go into the same meal. 

The metal lid clinks as Jungkook covers the pot to boil, turning around to join you at the counter, where you wait awkwardly in front of an unused chopping board, no knife in sight. 

“These,” he says, reaching over you to pull up several stalks of something that looks similar to the wild onions that grow in your backyard. He fishes through the drawers before he pulls out a kitchen knife, gently placing it in your hand as he moves around to grab all of the other ingredients he needs for the boiling water on the stovetop. 

Hesitantly, you line up the onions and begin to chop, carefully sawing through each one until it comes cleanly off of the stalk. It’s awfully time-consuming, especially since Jungkook seems to have already made the stock base in the time it’s taken you to cut one. Nevertheless, you persist, because Jungkook wants these to go in the pot, and you refuse to be seen as incompetent in the kitchen, especially when Jungkook seems to be rather proficient when it comes to cooking despite the fact that a chef makes the majority of his meals for him. 

Old family recipes die hard, you suppose. 

Jungkook turns around to check on you and grab a small red container of what looks to be some sort of spicy pepper paste. When he sees you carefully slicing through each onion stalk, he laughs. 

“Hey, what are you laughing at?” You say, pouting. You don’t think you’re doing a terrible job, even if you are a bit slow. 

“You,” Jungkook says with a grin, not even bothering to think of something else to say instead. “Here, let me show you.”

He comes to stand behind you, his torso pressing against your back, as he reaches his arms around you, hands gently resting atop your own. There is something in the way his breath hits your skin, tickles the part right behind your ear that’s always been sensitive, how he leans down to look over your shoulder. The rise and fall of his chest against you. Something strange and foreign and calming, like when you tense up right before you fall asleep.

Frozen, you watch with nervous eyes as he holds your hand in his own, grasping onto the knife. He stacks a few onion stalks next to each other on top of the cutting board and slowly begins to cut—thin, quick slices until he develops a rhythm, an imaginary beat to the drumming of his heart, to the pounding of your own. 

The seconds seem to drag on for eternity, as if every cut through the vegetable is done in slow-motion, like time has slowed down just for the two of you. His breath tickles your skin, hot and tingly and filled with fire, lighting sparks everywhere it touches. You think that, if you concentrate hard enough, you can hear the way his heart thumps like a bass drum, ringing in your ears. Or maybe that’s just you. 

When four green onion stalks have been cut down to their very tips, suddenly the world speeds up, like the breaths that have slowly been leaving your lips come out all at once, like your heart picks up time to a universal metronome, desperate to realign itself once more. 

“There,” Jungkook murmurs from behind you. The words are soft and distant, almost like someone else had uttered them. “All done.”

You blame the tears welling in your eyes on the onions. 

Thirty minutes and an overwhelming amount of slicing different ingredients later, there is a boiling pot of kimchi stew on the stove, steaming up the inside of the glass lid that Jungkook has placed on top to keep it warm. He’s big on optimizing the time spent in the kitchen, cleaning up everything before you eat, stuffing all of the used plates and bowls and knives into the sink as they come, wrapping up the vegetables in the thin plastic bags that they came in and putting them back into the fridge. Jungkook says it’s because he doesn’t like having to clean the kitchen up after he��s eaten. You think it’s because he thinks you’ll run off and leave him to do all the work. 

You, admittedly, don’t make your own meals very often (or at all), but you can see the appeal. There’s something different about food that you make yourself, food that you turned from ingredients to a meal. Something rewarding. 

Or maybe it’s just because Jungkook did most of the cooking, and he’s got this inexplicable magic touch. 

“Good, right?” He asks when you’re finished, the both of you heading back to the kitchen to wash up the last of your dishes.

“It was okay,” you tease, even though your empty bowl says otherwise. There’s not a drop of soup, a scrap of food left inside of it, just an orange ring around the inside from the kimchi color. 

“Okay, Miss ‘Okay’,” Jungkook says, placing his bowl gently into the sink. “Hand me your thing, I’ll finish washing up.”

“You sure?” You ask. You feel like you’ve contributed absolutely nothing to the making of this dish. Not cooking it, not putting away the ingredients or washing the pot, nothing. The least you could do is clean up a couple of your bowls. Or put them in the dishwasher. 

“Yeah, don’t worry about it,” Jungkook says, hand already latching onto it. “Takes two minutes.”

“Okay,” you tell him, watching the bowls fill with soap as his big hands scrub away the remnants of a very delicious meal. 

You linger in the kitchen. Despite not really having anything else to do, you don’t want to go back to your room, or curl away in some corner of the apartment where Jungkook can’t find you. You’re finally spending time together. Isn’t that what you wanted?

“It was pretty good,” you add on belatedly, when Jungkook is just drying his hands on the dish towel. There’s a precarious stack of dishes, utensils, and pots on the drying rack, like adding one more chopstick will send the whole thing tumbling down, but Jungkook isn’t worried about it at all. Even though he likes cleaning stuff up, he doesn’t like putting it away. 

“Aha!” Jungkook shouts, pointing at you accusingly. “I knew you would like it.”

“You’re a good chef,” you tell him. Maybe kimchi jjigae is the only thing he’s good at making, but rather be a master of one than a jack of all trades but master of none. Though, you have to admit that Jungkook is a master of several trades, none of which you think you could ever do. “You should cook more.”

“I wish,” Jungkook says with a sigh. The two of you have retired to the leather couch, the conversation drifting away from the kitchen and towards the sofas. When he collapses on the cushions, he relaxes, like the feeling is sucking out all of the tension in his body. “Every time I get back from work, I’m so drained and exhausted. I just want to go to sleep.”

“You weren’t tired tonight,” you point out. 

“No,” Jungkook says. The words are distant and faintly register in his mind, almost like the realization has just dawned on him for the first time, “I wasn’t.”

“Is there something else you wanna do?” You ask, not feeling particularly lethargic either. Normally, you’d spend the rest of the night raiding the rest of Jungkook’s amenities, watching old shows on his television or taking a bath until your body looks like a raisin. Something you can do by yourself, something that you’d want to do by yourself to make up for the fact that Jungkook doesn’t ever want to do anything with you. Watching him at work is getting less boring, because you’re actually starting to interact, but at home, you go right back to square one. Or, you did. “Watch a movie, or anything?”

“Nah, I’m alright,” Jungkook shakes his head, scrunching up his nose. You watch him as he chews the inside of his cheek, finger tracing over the scar that’s been left from that night, the night you patched him up. You’re a healer, but some things are meant to leave marks. You almost think that Jungkook is going to up and leave, heave himself off of the floor and spend the rest of the night alone in his bedroom, but then, he turns to you and he asks, “How often do you heal people?”

“I haven’t in a while,” you admit. Not because the opportunity has never presented itself, but you never had anyone to heal. “I used to when I was a kid, a lot. You know, scraped knees and paper cuts.”

“What about you?” Jungkook asks. “Do you have to heal yourself as well?”

“No,” you explain, “healers’ bodies heal by themselves.” It’s why, whenever you get back to your shack after crashing into a tree on the sidewalk that you hadn’t spotted, or stubbed your toe on the leg of a table, or pulled a muscle from stretching too far, you let yourself rest, and your body does the work for you. “But healing isn’t… it isn’t something I do very often. I turn invisible much more.”

“I can tell,” Jungkook muses. “But you’ve been invisible around me so much that it feels like I can still see you.”

“That’s because I’m always in your office when I’m invisible,” you point out. Jungkook knows you’re there because you wouldn’t be anywhere else. Where would you even go, when the whole point is to watch him? “In a place like this, there is no way you would be able to find me.”

“You wanna bet?”

“You know what, yes, I do,” you say, because Jungkook can’t possibly think his human-snuffing skills are as good as yours. Especially when the only person he’s trying to find is invisible. “You think you’re such a hotshot, hmm? Try and find me, then.”

“First floor only,” Jungkook rules. “And, when I do, I get to turn something.”

“Fine,” you agree, only because you know that that’s not going to happen. “One thing. That’s strike two, though.”

“You won’t tell,” Jungkook chides, eyes narrowed. 

“Will I?”

“Twenty seconds!” Jungkook says, already beginning to count down. “Nineteen, eighteen—!”

You turn invisible at once, not wasting a second, scurrying off down one of the hallways. There are plenty of places to hide in Jungkook’s house, from the walk-in closets in every bedroom to the one-foot-tall gap underneath every bed. But you won’t go for one of those, because Jungkook expects you to. He’s going to hunt around his entire house, looking in all of the nooks and crannies, the armoires and cabinets and cubbyholes, because he thinks that that’s where you’ll be hiding. But the truth is that there is no way that Jungkook will be able to find you when he can’t see you, because he doesn’t know what he’ll be looking for. 

So, you pick the second-to-last bedroom down the hall, and you wait. You’d sit down on the mattress, but Jungkook easily be able to spot a dip in the comforter, so you stand, right next to the door, holding your breath. If Jungkook really does think he can sense your presence, or whatever psychic nonsense he’s on about, then he should have no problem finding you. 

You hear Jungkook’s voice echoing down the hallway, a sickly sweet singsong as he walks into every room. 

“Y/N…” He calls out, like a ghost in a horror movie. “Where are you?”

From your angle, you can peer down the corridor, watch as he trickles in and out of each room after five minutes, no doubt searching through every one with both of his arms out, desperate to crash into you. Good thing you’re standing, otherwise Jungkook might accidentally elbow you. Slowly, he makes his way out of the room right before yours, casually walking towards you. You suck in a quick breath, holding yourself perfectly still.

“Are you here?” Jungkook flips his head around the doorframe, a foot away from where you’re standing. He isn’t looking right at you, thank God, otherwise you think you might just burst into laughter. “Hmm, I think you are.”

He begins to walk around the room, one hand tracing over the quilted pattern on the comforter, the other reaching out, grabbing fistfuls of air. He looks like someone’s blocked his vision, wandering around aimlessly as he tries to find something to cling onto. You bite your lip, refusing to laugh and give yourself away as he makes his way into the bathroom, singing your name like a chant, a curse to be laid upon you. When he obviously has no luck, he returns to the bedroom, eyes narrowed, as if that will better help his vision. 

You don’t think you’ve ever held your breath for this long, lungs about to burst, but you can’t let Jungkook find you. There’s more than just your powers on the line, and his reward. There’s your pride, and his massive ego that you refuse to stroke. The fact that he looks absolutely ridiculous is also doing nothing to aid you, but giving yourself up would be a metaphorical death sentence. 

Jungkook has one foot out of the door, already heading towards the last bedroom in the hallway, when you crack. You sputter out a half-breath, this miniscule exhale, and he stops in his tracks, turning around. You freeze up, hoping that maybe Jungkook will just think it was a trick of his own ears. 

“Y/N?” He taunts. He looks around the room again, trying to see if the wind is blowing a different way, if there is something different. He almost doesn’t notice you. 

Almost. 

You turn in shock when Jungkook reaches a hand out, his fingers pinching at your lower torso, shrieking as you practically topple over, Jungkook’s arms the only things that prevent you from diving head first onto the floor. He encases you in his hold as you sink to the floor in defeat, laughing as he follows you, one arm holding your waist as the other wraps around your back. He chuckles to himself while you curl up in shame, desperate not to meet your eyes. Your skin sizzles where his fingers had touched it, like oil in a pan after it’s been taken off of the stove, like the remnants of a flame, embers left to burn into ashes. It feels like your body is on fire. 

“Found you,” Jungkook teases, but it’s soft and sweet and fond. “I told you, I just know.”

“You just heard me breathe,” you defend yourself, because the former is impossible to accept. 

“Whatever you want to say to make yourself feel better.” He grins, cheeky and prideful, making you shove his head away with the palm of your hand. 

“Fine, whatever,” you say, resigning yourself to the fact that you lost this round. “What do you want to turn? The bed frame? The door knob? That really ugly pot in the living room?”

“Hey, that pot isn’t ugly,” Jungkook exclaims. You frown at him. “Okay, it’s only a little bit ugly.”

“For someone with so much money, you sure don’t have the best taste,” you tell him, even though everything else in his house reads expensive like nothing else. That pot is just weirdly out-of-place. “Maybe the gold will make it look better.”

“What’s this?” Jungkook asks, reaching a hand out from behind you to toy at the bracelet on your wrist, this silver chain with a couple of charms dangling from it. It’s rusted beyond belief, from rain, from humidity, from wear, but you refuse to take it off, even when it loses what’s left of its shimmer, even when the silver fades to a scratchy red iron. 

“An old bracelet,” you say, fingers instinctively making to play with it, rubbing away at the metal. “From my mom.”

“You wear it every day,” Jungkook notices. 

“I never take it off,” you say. 

“It’s pretty,” Jungkook tells you, and you know that he isn’t just saying that. That he means it, despite its abysmal condition. The years have not been kind to it, but then again, they haven’t been very kind to you either. “It must be really special.”

“It is.” You shuffle the bracelet around so that all five of the charms are in view. “She would buy a new charm every year for my birthday.”

“I like this one,” Jungkook says, pointing to the milk carton charm. “It’s cute.”

“Yeah…” you trail off. The bracelet isn’t much, but it’s all you have left of a childhood that you had been robbed of. You had to grow up too fast, that you know, but at least this bracelet reminds you that you are never too old for your memories. 

“Can I turn it?” Jungkook asks. It’s as if you can see the words leave his lips, resting in front of you, waiting for your response. 

You turn around to face him, eyes wide. Your hand goes to rest atop the bracelet protectively, the idea of letting someone else touch it almost unfathomable. 

“You can say no,” Jungkook quickly stammers out, face beet red. “It was just—you wear it so much, and it looks like the silver is fading, so I was thinking maybe the gold would… fix it up a bit, or something. Make it look new again. Ignore me, you don’t have to say yes, it was just a suggestion.”

Your fingers drop into your lap as you look at him, expression softening. Here, in this unused guest bedroom, Jungkook looks nervous, lost, stumbling over his own words like he isn’t sure of himself anymore. He looks away from you, eyes already beginning to scan the room for something else to turn instead, doubtful you would even agree to such a wild request. It is your bracelet, after all. Why would he do something like that for you?

“You want to?” You ask him, hopeful and wishing. 

Jungkook nods, a smile tugging at his lips. “I do.”

“Then you can,” you say, holding out your wrist to him, the charms dangling over your laps. “Please.”

Jungkook’s shocked that you even said yes, but he scrambles to twist you around, moving your bodies so you aren’t pressed against each other like two peas squished inside of a pod. In this new position, you’re facing each other, staring right at each other as Jungkook reaches out a tentative hand, delicate fingers padding against your wrist. He breathes, and so do you, because you’ve gotten so used to the way this bracelet has looked, so familiar with every rust and crack and dent, knowing that it has remained unchanged for years. 

But this isn’t a change. It’s a rebirth. It’s something different, something fresh, something to remind you that not all is lost. That old memories can become new once more. 

Slowly, as Jungkook presses soft fingertips against the metal, sparks fly. A golden sheen wraps around the bracelet, inch by inch, leaving behind this unmistakeable shimmer, glinting in the sunlight. You can’t tear your eyes away, watching the magic unfold in real time, the silver vanishing before you. The gold consumes it, erasing all of the rust, the wear and tear, until it looks brand new.

Your mother would have loved it. 

“Is that strike two?” Jungkook asks, a cherry red blush decorating his cheeks. 

“Thank you,” you breathe out, not caring if it’s strike two or strike two hundred. Your fingers press against the metal, smooth and shiny, the bumpy texture gone. It must be worth thousands, now. But to you, it is priceless. “It’s beautiful.”

Jungkook nods, and you can distantly feel the weight of his gaze on you. 

“I know,” he says. 

You can’t sleep. 

You’ve slept better here than you have for the past three years of your life. At this point, sleeping on cement would be more comfortable than your bed back at your own house, but here, the soft, plush mattress takes away all of the exhaustion that manifests itself in you throughout the day. Not to mention the fact that for the first time in over a decade, you finally have a normal routine, an internal clock to direct your body, rather than the other way around. There is something soothing in knowing exactly what the next day will bring. Something that doesn’t keep you up with worry.

But tonight, you are wide awake. 

The golden bracelet on your wrist clinks against itself as you sit up, rubbing at the gunk that’s collected in your eyes. You’ve been keenly aware of its existence on your wrist much more in the past several days, ever since Jungkook turned it from its previous faded silver, fingers instinctively toying with it whenever there’s nothing on your mind—and even when there is. 

What you fear most is the fact that you feel as though you are relying on Jungkook to be there more and more, counting on the fact that you know he will be by your side no matter where you are, no matter what you do. You are relying on him to be there, on his house to be there, shaping the way that you run your life based on the belief that at the end of the day, he will be asleep under the same roof as you. 

You pull yourself out of bed. Maybe a night spent alone will remind you of the days where you would watch the moon move across the sky, sitting underneath trees and counting the stars that you can see. Remind you that no matter what, the moon will always be there for you, too. Remind you that this, all of it, is temporary. 

You know that you aren’t allowed to go up to the second floor of Jungkook’s apartment, and that you’ve never been solely because Jungkook requested that you stay downstairs, a promise you have kept throughout the weeks. But there must be some appeal to the rooftop, you think, because Jungkook never comes downstairs whenever he’s having a restless night. Besides, it’s not as if you have any plans to go into his bedroom. 

Softly, you creep upstairs, hand dragging along the golden rail, feet leaving creases in the carpet. The top of the stairs opens up into a general hallway, a dark wooden door undoubtedly leading towards his bedroom, while the walls on the other side turn to glass, leading towards the pool. You tiptoe down the hallway, making sure to avoid making too much noise by Jungkook’s bedroom door, passing by the gym that Jungkook must use all of the time, whenever he’s not around to bother you. The glass door at the end of the hallway must exit out to the pool, so you twist the doorknob and push it open, the cool summer atmosphere hitting you like a breath of fresh air. 

All of the lights are on outside, this soft white that reflects off of the metal railing and the pool water, crashing in waves against the tiled edges. You think it’s just for show, like how people leave their Christmas lights on twenty-four hours a day, visible through their windows, but then you round the corner and see him.

Jungkook sits along the edge of the water, legs swishing around in the pool, as he looks up at the sky. The summer breeze blows through his hair, messy and loose, the way it looks right when he gets out of the shower, before he puts any product into it. Whatever he’s playing with in his hand glints in the lights, that distinctive yellow glow. It must be a coin or something, something small, something to keep his fingers occupied. 

“Are we considering that strike three?”

He whips around when he hears your voice, hears the way the pool water carries it across to him. 

“I thought you promised never to come up here,” he muses back. 

“Then I guess maybe both of us can be forgiven,” you suggest.

You amble over to him, crouching down to dip your feet in as well. You seat yourself along the edge of the pool beside him as the water sloshes around, the sensation sending shivers down your spine despite the humidity in the air. 

“Can’t sleep?”

Jungkook shakes his head. “My body’s tired but my mind isn’t.”

“What’s that?” You ask, pointing at the coin in his hand. It isn’t a form of currency that you recognize, certainly nothing used here. 

“A family heirloom,” Jungkook tells you, holding it out for you to see. It’s covered in a thin layer of cold but you think that you can make out some sort of crest, an emblem or insignia above the coat of arms. “Apparently it had been stolen from someone of royalty or high status back in the day. My family turned it into gold and made it ten times more valuable.”

“Oh, but I pickpocket a few people and suddenly I get sentenced by the Realm to be a minder, I see how it is,” you joke, rolling your eyes. Your eyes glaze over the crest, tracing the lines of a lion, a spear, a shield. It must mean something to someone, but to you and Jungkook, it could be anything. 

“Hey, but being my minder hasn’t been terrible, has it?” Jungkook asks, mockingly offended. His lips curl down into a pout as he looks at you, a hand on his heart like it’s been punctured by your words.

“It’s…” You begin. You suppose that it hasn’t been terrible. In the beginning, it was positively nightmarish, left you feeling like there was no way you would ever complete your sentence. Now, there’s this weird, hidden part of you that doesn’t want to leave. The part of you that has become attached to this world, this lifestyle. The part of you that relies on there being another person in your life to be with. “It’s not that bad.”

“You know what, I’ll take it.” Jungkook grins. “Even though I know you secretly love me.”

You give Jungkook a shove, pushing him on his side. “You wish.”

He laughs, pulling himself back up off of the cement, knocking his shoulder into yours. “I know that we both kind of didn’t have a choice in any of this,” he tells you, looking up at the stars, watching their faint light, twinkling from millions of light years away. “But I think I really needed you here.”

“Oh, now he admits he needs a minder,” you say sarcastically, flinging your arms out in front of you. 

Jungkook chuckles. “I didn’t realize I turned so much until you forced me to stop cold turkey.”

You nod. The truth is, you can’t blame Jungkook for his turning habits. You can’t blame him for living the way that he lives, when it’s the only thing he’s ever known. When the two most important adults in his life turn like wildfire, when they taught him everything he knows. But Jungkook is his own person, now, not a product of his parents, anymore. He has his own choices to make. He can become whoever he wants to be. 

He has become someone he wants to be. 

Jungkook’s magic habits aren’t any fault of his own as much as yours aren’t, either. They were born out of ignorance, out of necessity. Out of the fact that neither of you have ever known a world where you didn’t have powers, where you didn’t feel as though you needed to use them. You couldn’t imagine not having your magic. You know that Jungkook feels the same. 

“Why did you?” It’s as if the words don’t even belong to you. Like someone else has spoken them—the moon, the sky, the stars. 

Jungkook purses his lips, and sighs. “It was all I had ever known.”

Jungkook grew up drunk on his powers. You wonder if he’s sobered up now. 

(You wonder if you had anything to do with it.)

“When I was little, my parents gave me that whole ‘you’re different, and that makes you special’ talk. They told me that my powers were valuable. A gift. And that people with gifts like mine must never waste them. That if we had been given this magic, we ought to use it, right? So that’s what I did. God, every day I would turn a new toy gold, and then I would get another one to replace it, and I would turn that one gold, too. My parents probably sold that to our banks, another hundred thousand dollars into their pockets,” Jungkook says, forcing out a laugh at the memory. The thought is rather endearing, when you think about it. Little Jungkook turning a stuffed bear gold, crying when it isn’t soft and fuzzy anymore. 

“And my parents encouraged me. They told me that I was doing the right thing, that I wasn’t letting my gift go to waste. You saw them that evening that they came over. They were turning things gold left and right. Things that I had wanted to stay their natural material. Like that bowl for my keys. Do you know how easily gold is scratched?” He exclaims, gesturing frantically in front of him. “I purposefully kept that as the clay it was made out of. And now it’s gold.”

“A modern day crisis,” you joke. 

“I guess…” Jungkook begins, but the words trail off and he pauses, almost like nothing he says will be correct. “I guess I just never knew the difference between not wanting my magic to be in vain, and not wanting to ever stop using it. Like you. You only heal when you need to. And even then, you don’t treat it like this precious gift. You treat it like something you owe to others.”

“That’s because without other people to heal, my power is useless,” you explain. Being able to heal others has no direct benefit for you. It doesn’t make you stronger, or faster, or better. It is a gift that is meant to be shared. “It’s different.”

“Every time I turn something, I feel like shit afterwards,” Jungkook admits to you. “Like I’ve turned so many things, that I don’t have the right to do it anymore. Like I’ve exhausted my magic.”

“You feel guilty,” you explain to him, resting a hand on top of his own, his fingers losing their grip on the coin he’s been tossing between them. “And that’s okay,” you tell him, meeting his eyes with your own. “Your parents are right—what you have, this power that you possess, it is a gift. It has made your life better in a way that nothing else could. But your fear of letting it go to waste, of not truly appreciating it for what it is, is a two-way street.”

Jungkook blinks at you, petal pink lips parted ever so slightly. 

“Wasting a gift by never using it is the same as wasting it by overusing it, because it loses its specialness. When you turn things now, it doesn’t feel amazing or blessed or exciting, because it’s lost the ability to feel like that for you. It’s almost second-nature, at this point,” you say.

“Then what do I do?” He asks, feeling helpless. “How do I make it feel special again?”

You squeeze his hand in your own, making him look up at you, the pool water reflected in his big brown eyes, like a warm chocolate ocean. “You only use it on things that make you feel like a better person.” Things that make Jungkook feel special, as opposed to things that make his magic feel special. “Not just things that will put more money in your bank account, or things that will make your house decor nicer. Things that you really, truly care about.”

Jungkook’s eyes glance downward at something, but he nods. He breathes out this exhale, this heavy sort of breath, like he’s trying to reteach himself the things that make him tick. Things like alphabetized books, and homemade kimchi stew. 

“Gifts like that only come once in a lifetime,” you say. “Remarkable things don’t happen to us all the time.” You know this, because it’s true. Because you’ve lived it.

Because in another life, in another universe, there is a you who can’t turn invisible, can’t heal people, and there is a Jungkook, too, one who can’t turn whatever he pleases into gold. And they would live their whole lives not knowing what it would be like to have these powers, to ease their way of life. And they would never meet each other, either. Too busy trapped on opposite sides of the world, too busy to worry about anybody but themselves. 

“So we have to learn to treasure them.” It feels as though you’re drowning in him. Like you’re floundering, barely staying afloat. “We have to make sure that they always feel special to us.”

You curl your hand around his own, lacing your fingers together as your palms rest against each other’s. You watch as his gaze drifts down to where your hands are interlocked, a bridge between the two of you, a lifeline that connects the two lives you had lived without each other in them. 

“Do you understand?” You ask. You can see the words as they appear, watch as they linger in between the two of you, hot summer breaths on a cool summer night. 

He squeezes your hands together, and he smiles, warm and round and real. He looks at you, and he is there, he is sitting by your side. And he is beautiful and extraordinary and remarkable. And he says, “I’m starting to.”

You wake up the next morning to find a shimmering piece of parchment sitting on the dresser in your bedroom. 

As declared by the Realm, its leaders, and its government, it reads, 

The recipient, Y/N, has successfully completed her sentence of community service as mandated by the courts. She no longer needs to serve as the minder to Jeon Jungkook, and may return to her former residence. 

Though the sentence has been carried out, The Realm, its leaders, and its government, reserves the right to re-charge the recipient for the crimes for which she had been originally tried should she commit them again. Should this instance occur, the option for community service will not be available. 

We thank you for your service.

Oh. 

Already? 

It feels like you just started. Like it was only yesterday that you stormed up to the front door of Jungkook’s penthouse, watched as he crumpled up the parchment and tossed it into the bin. Like it was only yesterday you reappeared at his office, this time with a declaration that won’t be so easily destroyed. 

You wonder why this one is all sparkly as well. 

You don’t know exactly what prompted the end of your sentence, what duties you had somehow fulfilled to earn you your freedom. What is the Realm searching for? What data are they using to determine whether or not you have met your goal? It certainly couldn’t have just been the fact that Jungkook hasn’t turned in a while. Not turning is not the same as not wanting to turn. 

So what changed?

You stare down at the parchment, each word leaving you more confused than the word before it. 

It isn’t over already, is it?

Knowing that you are now free to return back to your own house means that your worst fear has been realized. You don’t want to. 

You want to stay here, in Jungkook’s massive penthouse, relishing in the glory and wealth that comes alongside it. You want his chef to make pre-made meals for you and the extra kimchi stew he keeps in the fridge. You want Jungkook’s five thousand different streaming services and enough books to last you several lifetimes. You want the sense of normalcy that staying here has given you, the regular routine that you have so effortlessly fallen into. You want the late-night pool chats and rounds of hide-and-seek. 

Why would you want to give up all that you have?

“You want fried or poached eggs?” Jungkook knocks on your closed bedroom door, tapping softly with his knuckles, already awake and ready to make breakfast. 

“Either,” you tell him, glaring down at the parchment with furrowed brows. You’re too afraid to touch it, too afraid to even look at it any closer. Because that will make it real. 

“Alright,” Jungkook calls. “It’ll be ready in ten! Got freshly-squeezed orange juice too!” You can hear his footsteps as he heads back down the corridor, the thump, thump, thump of his fuzzy slippers against the hardwood floor. 

“Coming,” you say weakly, too focused on the glowing paper on the dresser. 

 Just because you can go back to your house doesn’t mean you have to. Just because you can go back to your old life, doesn’t mean you have to. 

You grab the paper and stuff it in an old tote bag, covering it with old clothes, memories of the former world you lived in. Not anymore. 

After all, isn’t this the life you’ve always dreamed of?

Kimchi stew is, as it stands, delicious, but it can’t be the only thing that the two of you ever cook together. 

Jungkook does all of the grocery shopping, mostly because the both of you know that if you went out to the store with a list of ingredients, you would be lost for days searching for them. So when he returns home with three tote bags filled with ingredients, your mouth already starts to water. 

“What are we making today, chef?” You ask, bounding into the kitchen as Jungkook begins to unpack. 

“Another Korean recipe,” Jungkook says happily, pulling out a bright yellow pack of thin grey noodles. “Japchae!”

“Sounds delicious,” you say, though at this point he could make you microwave mac-and-cheese and you’d snarf it down like nothing else.

“You bet it is.” Jungkook grins, slowly dumping out the rest of the contents of the bags. They are filled to the brim with vegetables and seasonings, peppers and zucchini and everything in between, the makings of a colorful little homemade dish. 

Jungkook seems to be making more time to actually cook things these days, fishing through the cabinets regularly to see what meals he can make with all of the ingredients in his kitchen. The chef only comes once every two weeks now, and usually brings with him any groceries that Jungkook has personally requested. He’ll ask you what you think of a new recipe that he wants to try, showing you the guide on his laptop screen, writing down whatever he needs to buy from the store. 

And you thought that the chef’s meals were appetizing. 

“Have you ever thought of meal-prepping?” You ask as Jungkook sets the noodles in a pot of boiling water, turning the heat on high. 

“Why?” Jungkook says. 

“I don’t know,” you tell him, washing the red pepper underneath the faucet, cutting board and knife ready and waiting on the counter. “So you don’t have to go through the process of cutting everything up and sauteing it, or whatever.”

Jungkook turns around, shakes his head. “No. Half the fun of cooking is making it.”

“But you could save yourself a lot of time when you come back from work,” you point out. Jungkook’s always so exhausted by the time he walks through the front door, keys scratching the golden bowl on the table on the way in. 

“But then we wouldn’t get to cook together,” he says like it’s obvious, like it’s the thing that he thinks about the most when he comes back home. The two of you, filling up his kitchen, leaving oil stains on the countertops and burnt vegetables at the bottom of the pans. The scent of spices, of onions, of sizzling vegetables wafting through the air. 

Another person to fill up this barren house. 

You never eat in the dining room, because two people still isn’t enough to make that room feel like it’s full, like there are people that regularly use it. But now, there are grease stains on the leather of Jungkook’s couch, and a little bit of ketchup on the rug that he doesn’t know about, reminders that just because Jungkook’s house is big doesn’t mean it has to be empty as well. 

“I’m a horrible chef,” you say, because you’re not quite sure what else to tell him. Up until a few weeks ago, you had never cut up an onion in your life. Things in the kitchen that take Jungkook five minutes to do take you twenty. You certainly aren’t any help, not when Jungkook has to pause whatever he’s doing to teach you something that you should already know. So what’s the appeal?

“You’re not that bad,” Jungkook assures you gently. “You just need to do it more.”

“Oh, so is that your mission? You don’t meal-prep because you want me to learn how to make my own food?” You ask, rounding on him. 

“You got me.” He grins guiltily, pinching the part of your waist where he knows you’re the most ticklish, making you laugh as you turn invisible for a moment, a sort of gut reaction whenever you’re sensitive. “And because I like cooking with you.”

“Can’t imagine why,” you say with a roll of your eyes. “It must be my infectious personality, right?”

“That, and teaching you how to cook stuff is fun.” Jungkook smiles, reaching out as he begins to chop vegetables beside you. Standing here, in the middle of his kitchen, you wonder if this is how life is supposed to be. Someone you can cook with, someone you can eat with. Someone who will teach you the things that you don’t know, who will help you master the things that you do. Someone who doesn’t care where you came from, only that you’re here now, that you are right beside him. 

Homemade meals make your insides warm and fuzzy, but having someone to spend the night with makes your heart feel comforted. Makes it feel like it’s been wrapped in a blanket, cradled in someone’s hands. 

“What happens when I learn everything?” You ask. “What will you do then?”

Eventually, this routine must come to an end. Eventually, there will be nothing left for him to teach you, nothing left for you to learn. You know that your days are numbered, that there is only so much time that the two of you can spend together. What will happen when you reach the last day? When there will be no tomorrow for you to rely on?

Jungkook must know that you can’t stay here forever, even if the two of you try to keep it that way. But he doesn’t miss a beat when he says, “Then, I’ll find something new to teach you.”

This arrangement has always been temporary. 

But for a moment, just a moment, an echo in time, he makes you believe otherwise. 

There’s a golden glint on your chest of drawers when you walk into the room, the glare flashing in your eyes as the sun hits it. 

You, admittedly, don’t go into your room very often, usually only to do the thing that bedrooms, at their most basic level, were meant to do: sleep. But Jungkook retired early to his room tonight, citing some ridiculous reason like he hadn’t worked out enough this week, and everything in the house suddenly becomes less inviting whenever he’s not around. 

When you step closer, you can see it. See the thin chain that rests on the dresser, the key that hangs from it, a similar size to the charms on your bracelet. The gold is faded, shine erased, leaving behind this gentle matte texture, smooth but worn. It’s much more vintage than the sorts of things you would find in jewelry stores today—bright, sparkly necklaces and shiny, lustrous rings. It was made to look old, to look worn. It probably is.  

There’s a little note next to the necklace, a torn piece of paper from a notepad, the edges rough and uneven. 

To Y/N,

Found this in my mother’s old jewelry that she always leaves here when she decides it’s not her style anymore. Didn’t really think of anybody else that would make good use of it like you. I think it’ll match your bracelet well! I hope you like it.

Jungkook

You smile as you read the words, take in this meaningful little gesture that Jungkook has done for you. The bracelet from your mother has always been your most prized possession, but with its new golden makeover, it reminds you that you don’t always have to look to your past to be happy. That what you have, right here, right now, is enough. Now, your mother’s charm bracelet has a matching partner. 

Standing in front of the mirror, you put the necklace on, fingers craning to attach the clasp to the chain, metal slipping from your grip. After a bit of a battle, you finally manage to connect the two ends, letting the key hang low past your collarbones, the gold resting gently against your skin. It doesn’t match your bracelet perfectly, but the two aren’t so much a matching set as they are a pair, two pieces that are meant to complement each other rather than complete. 

You seriously doubt that Jungkook’s already asleep. 

Sneaking up the stairs to the second story, you see that the door to Jungkook’s bedroom is wide open, revealing a little glimpse into the room he spends so much time in. It’s dark, empty, a signal that Jungkook is elsewhere on this floor. You don’t spend too much effort peering into Jungkook’s bedroom, not when it feels like you’re invading his space, his privacy. He’s already given up so much of his home for you. He deserves to keep his bedroom his own.

He’s not in the gym, you determine as you pass by, which means that there really is only one other place he could be found. 

You push open the door to the rooftop, rounding the corner to the deck to find Jungkook doing laps in the pool, wearing nothing but his swimming trunks. The water sloshes around his body as he swims back and forth, kicking up splashes as he goes. You watch for a few moments as he works out, not wanting to interrupt him he burns away the calories in his body. This is the closest you’ve ever come to seeing Jungkook undressed, but you don’t really mind. At least he’s got shorts on. 

When he stops, he stands up in the pool, sopping wet hands running through sopping wet hair, strands that frame the sides of his face, make his hair look longer than it actually is. He wipes away the water on his face, blinking the chlorine from his eyes, when he spots you. 

“What are you doing up here?” He asks, not even caring to fight away the grin that has laced itself on his features. 

“Came to say thank you,” you tell him, fingers toying with the key around your neck. “You didn’t have to do that for me.”

“I wanted to,” Jungkook says honestly. “Besides, my mother was never going to come back to get it, so I figured that it should go to someone who will actually wear it.”

“It’s beautiful,” you say, slowly sitting down along the edge of the pool, letting your legs dip into the water. Jungkook makes his way over to you, water splashing at his torso as he walks through the pool to stand before you. “Was it always gold?”

“It was, yes,” Jungkook says with a nod. “My mom liked to turn a lot of things, but she preferred her jewelry to be naturally gold. That’s why it’s pretty faded.”

“It looks nicer this way,” you say. “Shiny gold looks cheap.”

“Spend a couple of months in a mansion and suddenly you think gold looks cheap?” Jungkook jokes. “I think I’m rubbing off on you.”

“Can’t help that I’ve got an eye for nice things,” you tease, looking Jungkook up and down just to be dramatic. You have to admit that he’s got a rather attractive figure, fit, built, toned. You would be lying to yourself if you said that you weren’t eyeing him at least a little bit. 

Jungkook pretends that he isn’t paying attention to the fact that you are blatantly ogling his body and laughs. “You swim?”

“I learned when I was little,” you tell him. “But I haven’t done it in a long time.”

“Oh, that’s a shame,” Jungkook says with a disapproving shake of his head. 

“What? I like being dry,” you say, hands on your hips as you defend yourself. Besides, when you were little, swimming always meant showering afterwards, which sucked because then you had to waste water just to clean yourself of other water. Your mother always said that being able to swim would carry you far in life, would be an invaluable skill. You haven’t swum since she died. 

“But, you wouldn’t mind if I… oh, never mind,” Jungkook dismisses, being purposefully vague just to capture your attention. 

“What?” You demand. 

“If I…” Jungkook begins, leaning back down in the pool until all but his head is submerged. He floats towards you, paddling until he’s right beneath your feet. “Did this—?”

Without a second of warning, Jungkook’s wet hands are grabbing onto your ankle, pulling you and your fully-clothed-self into the water with a splash, making you shriek as you feel your skin freeze up at the cold temperature. Luckily, it’s shallow enough here that you can stand rather easily, but now you’re soaked from head to toe, sopping fabric sticking to your figure.

You come up from beneath the water, positively accosted, hands wiping across your face as you clear your eyes so that they can narrow in on your target. “Okay, that was uncalled for,” you say, splashing Jungkook furiously, even as the two of you fight off the laughter that is bubbling up from your throats. 

“Oh, but it’s such a nice night for swimming,” Jungkook grins devilishly, that cheeky sort of look reserved for when he knows he’s being a nuisance. 

“Maybe for you!” You say, punctuating every word with a splash. Jungkook takes them all in good fun, accepting his punishment for pulling you into the pool. “I’ve been betrayed.”

“Admit it,” Jungkook coaxes, “you love me.”

You refuse.

When the rage has died down and the water begins to feel less like an icy death trap and more like a pleasant dip, you and Jungkook paddle around each other, swimming in circles like two fish in a school. Looking up, it is a nice night, clear skies as a crescent moon hangs above your heads. There are seldom any stars in the middle of the city, but the especially bright ones still shine, flickers of white in an otherwise deep blue ocean. You wonder how many times Jungkook has come out here, spent the night underneath the sky when he cannot sleep away the hours in bed. 

You wonder how many times you missed the opportunity to spend the night with him. 

“I sort of wish that we could stay like this forever, don’t you?” Jungkook asks, the two of you floating on top of the water like light against the sea. 

There’s a lot of things in your life that you wish would never change. This is just another bullet point added to the list. 

“Yeah,” you breathe out, because out there somewhere is a timer, counting down the moments until you have to say goodbye. “I do.”

“You didn’t have to do this, you know,” you say, looking at Jungkook. 

He sits across from you in the booth, face lit up in a warm yellow from the rustic exposed light bulb above your heads, this soft, homey glow to his features, sharp jawline but rounded cheeks. He’s cleaned up well, in a different way than how he gets ready for work, when he has to make sure his collars are crisp and his hair is sleek and straight. Here, his dark brown hair is bouncy, loose, like he had blown it out after jumping out of the shower and then immediately ran his hand through it a couple of times to mess it up. He wears a plain button down, nothing fancy or chic, no tie, no suit jacket. The beauty of how he looks is that it’s so simple, so timeless, like he doesn’t need to put any effort into how he looks because he is just naturally perfect. Like the cover of a magazine. Like a sculpture come to life. 

“I wanted to,” Jungkook says happily, fork twirling around the pasta in the dish in front of him. “We can’t just eat premade meals and leftover Korean food forever.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t complain if we did…” You reason, because you’ve been better fed in the few months you’ve lived with Jungkook than in the years you have spent on your own. Not to mention the fact that everything Jungkook makes tastes eons better than the meals the professional chef whips up, for some odd reason. “But you’re right, a night out is fun.”

“Sometimes food tastes better when you don’t make it yourself,” Jungkook points out, motioning to the dishes before you, these high-class servings of fish and pasta and vegetables that look like they belong on a cooking show rather than on the table in front of you. You and Jungkook may have mastered (or at least… gotten better at) cooking, but presentation is a whole other battlefield. Besides, it’s all going to the same place, so why bother?

“Mmm,” you murmur in agreement, savoring the flavor of the meal in front of you. A year ago you wouldn’t have dared step foot in a restaurant like this one, would have probably gotten kicked out after you walked through the door, so being here feels like a real treat. One that you think you could definitely get used to. 

“Thanks, by the way,” Jungkook pipes up, as if suddenly remembering something. 

“For what?”

“For your idea about the investment management,” Jungkook says, sending the both of you back to that day in his office, where Jungkook was on the verge of flipping his desk over because he couldn’t figure out a solution. 

“Oh, is it working out?” You ask, curious to know if your suggestion is truly paying off or if you just had too much faith in the goodness of humanity. 

“It is.” Jungkook nods happily. He seems very proud of himself. “It was slow going at first, because a lot of clients were starting to wonder why we weren’t investing in other stocks that would guarantee us a higher payout, but then they saw where the money was going. We aren’t bigger than our rival companies, but this levelled the playing field.”

“I’m glad,” you say, because it’s one thing for Jungkook to tell you you had a good idea, and it’s another for him to actually implement it. “That makes me happy to hear.”

“You’re not as bad at business or economics as you think you are, Y/N,” Jungkook informs you, waving around a nonchalant hand. “All they are is an in-depth study of human nature. Some economists assume that everyone in the world is selfish and cares only about themselves, but you’re different. You see the good in everyone, you believe that people can be honest, and selfless, and giving.”

Like Jungkook. 

Like Jungkook, who has given up his home, his work, his life just to deal with another person hovering around him. Who gifts you gorgeous pieces of jewelry and takes you out to fancy meals, who lets you screw up a recipe in the kitchen and obligingly eats peppers that have been charred beyond recognition. Who is so much more honest, so much more selfless, so much more giving, than you could ever be, sticking around because to not do so would cost you your freedom, because you would rather stay here than be anywhere else. 

“I don’t know what I’ll do when you’re gone,” Jungkook says, cracking this weak, terrible smile. He shakes his head as if to banish the thought from his mind, to exist only in this very moment, choosing to ignore both the past and the future. “I think I’m starting to rely on you being there.”

“Yeah,” you say softly, distantly. Something weighs heavy on your chest, pressing your heart down, slowing its temperate rhythm. The truth is that your heart stopped a long time ago, it stopped when you realized that there’s more to Jungkook that you want to know, when you realized that you can’t bear to imagine a life different than the one that the two of you share, no matter how temporary it is. But this weight, this burden on you, it serves as nothing but a reminder that without Jungkook, your heart cannot count in time. “Me too.”

You return home with plastic tupperwares in your hands, leftovers from the enormous meal that the two of you couldn’t have finished even if you tried. Jungkook takes the container from your hands as you excuse yourself to the bathroom, desperate to wash away the thoughts that rest heavy in your heart, cleanse yourself of the lies you can’t seem to stop telling. There’s this naive part of you that thinks, when you wash off the makeup, change back into your raggedy old clothes, all of the secrets you carry with you will vanish as well. 

You know you’ll have to come clean eventually. Eventually, Jungkook will get suspicious as to why you’ve hung around so long even though he is no longer turning. He’ll begin to wonder why you haven’t dashed out of the penthouse you once used to disparage, desperate to return to your old life, where you didn’t have to know him the way that you do now. When you didn’t feel like there was something else trapping you here. 

When all is said and done, though, it feels like here is where you were always meant to end up. 

You head back out into the living room, ready to settle down and wrap up the night by watching a movie or something, when you see Jungkook standing by the couch, your old tote bag sitting on the cushions from a laundry trip earlier today, a shimmering piece of parchment in his hands. 

“Jungkook—”

“How long?” He asks, voice cracking. He’s clenching the paper so hard that his knuckles are turning white, like he can’t believe the words that he’s reading. “How long have you been free to go?”

“Listen, I can explain—”

“A week? A month? When were you going to tell me?” He pleads. When you can’t even muster up the dignity to look at him, he shouts. “When?”

“A month,” you tell him weakly, desperately. 

“A month? You’ve been staying here for a month when you didn’t even need to?” He asks, and he isn’t angry, or furious, or full of rage. He looks helpless, like there is no longer light behind his eyes, twinkles in his irises. Like he’s in pain, like he’s hurt. Exposed, his walls broken down and nothing left to repair them. “When were you going to tell me? Were you ever going to say anything?”

“Yes, Jungkook, but I—”

“All this time,” he says, more to himself than to you, like he can’t believe how foolish he’s been. “All this time you’ve been using me? Using my money?”

“No, Jungkook, it’s not like that.” You are desperate, desperate to salvage what you can from this broken arrangement, desperate to start anew. 

“Then what is it like?” He demands. “If you weren’t using me for my house, or my money, or my personal chef, then what is it? What did you want from me that you couldn’t get on your own?”

You stop. Why did you stay? Normalcy? Opportunity? Company? All things that you never dreamed of having in a million years. And while being with Jungkook did provide you with all three, none of them feel quite right.

“I don’t know, I just—” You begin, scrambling for the right words and feeling like nothing you say will be correct. “I didn’t want to go back just yet.” It’s a pitiful excuse. 

“So you just decided to stay? To play along with me, with all of the things that I was doing with you, for you?” Jungkook shakes where he stands in front of you, blindsided. “Let me teach you how to cook and give you expensive jewelry and take you out to fancy dinners? Just for fun?”

“I never asked for you to do those things for me,” you remind him firmly. It’s not like you were scrounging for money from his pockets, selling insignificant gold sculptures on the black market to buff up your empty bank account. “You wanted to.”

“Because I thought we had something special, Y/N,” Jungkook admits helplessly, collapsing back on the couch. “I did those things because I felt it, Y/N. What you were talking about, that night at the pool, where you saw me sitting at the edge of the water. I felt it. With you,” he begs, hopeless and anguished. “I didn’t understand what it meant to make the magic feel special again until I did it for you. I turned your bracelet and it made me feel like I had something to give to others.”

“You know that that’s not what I meant,” you say, shaking your head. “I was talking about your gift, not us.”

“Aren’t they all the same, though? Magic? Powers? Love? Don’t they all make us feel like we have something special beneath our fingertips?” He asks, to you, to himself, to the moon and the stars, searching for an answer that none of you can give him. 

“Love? You don’t mean that,” you say, refusing to admit it. You have no explanation as to why Jungkook did the things he did, just as much as you don’t have an explanation as to why you did the things you did. They just happened. 

“I thought we had something,” Jungkook admits sadly, unable to even bring his head up to look at you, at the tears that are welling in your eyes, the ones you refuse to let fall. “And I thought the reason that you wanted to do all of those things with me was because you felt it, too.”

“Jungkook, you know that—”

“What?” He erupts. “What do I know? I know that you’ve been using me all of this time, that you did those things with me because you were getting freebies out of it. I know that I was foolish and—and stupid to think that maybe it was because you were falling in love with me just like I was falling in love with you.”

“Jungkook…” You reach out a trembling hand, wanting to feel the warmth of his body once more, the weight of his head in your palm. 

“Don’t,” he says, swatting it away and standing up. “I get it, Y/N. I was stupid and I thought that we had something, when we don’t.” He turns back to look at you, and you don’t think you’ll ever be able to get the image out of your head, the sight of him, broken and beaten and empty, a shell of the beautiful, vibrant man you had become so attached to. “There’s nothing left for you here. Your services are no longer required.”

He disappears down the hallway, leaving you with nothing but a tote bag, a necklace, and a bracelet left for you to remember him. 

When you step into your house for the first time in months, it feels even less inviting than it normally does. Which is, as far as you’re concerned, rather impressive, considering you’ve always dreaded coming back regardless of what happened throughout the day. 

But now, you can name no place you would rather not be than in this graffiti-laden house, a dangling light bulb above the back entrance and dirt and dust all along the walls. You’ve never had time to fix up this place and make it look even the slightest bit presentable, never had the money to paint over the walls and get rid of the big red X on the front door. Day in and day out, this would just be a place where you could sleep, a mattress on the floor and Campbell’s soups on the cracked kitchen counters. The first thing you’d do every morning is get out. The last thing you’d want to do every night is come back. 

No place has felt like home in a long time. Not since your mother died, when you lost how her smile would light up a room, how she would spin you in circles and kiss your forehead when you got scared that you were going too fast. You had almost forgotten what it meant to have a home, to have a place that felt sacred, like coming home to a warm hug and a steaming cup of tea. To have a place that you didn’t dread returning to, a place that you could gladly waste away in. 

The bracelet that dangles from your wrist is the closest thing that you have left to the feeling of home, of comfort and warmth and solace, of something that makes you feel truly happy. But now, the bracelet has been tinted with the memories of another, of the only other person you can think of that has brought you that same feeling of joy, of these rose-stained memories that rest deep within your heart’s attic. They have always been there, hidden, buried beneath the bad, but when there is nothing left they surface. To remind you of what good life can bring you. 

To remind you of the magic inside you. 

You hate living here. And for a time, you hated living with Jungkook, too. Hated how extravagant his house was, hated how he refused to even speak to you. How there were so many unused rooms, so many empty spaces. But what changed, there, and what hasn’t changed, here, is how people, and not things, are what fill up rooms. 

Living with Jungkook made you feel like coming back after a long day was worth it. Planted the knowledge inside you that you would always have him there, could always rely on another’s presence within the apartment. He’s only one person, but he fills up the room like nothing else, lights it up like New Year’s Eve. He’s funny, and witty, and gorgeous. He’s caring and honest and cheeky, just cocky enough for it to be charming as opposed to egotistical. He cooks like nothing else and spends his sleepless nights beneath the stars, looking at the same moon and sky as everyone else. 

You don’t hate living here because it’s shit. You hate living here because it’s lonely. 

There was a space in your heart that you didn’t even realize was empty. It had been overtaken by the part of you determined to make it to the next day, determined to stick it to the Realm, to its leaders, to all of the people that look down on you because you aren’t made of money. 

But when you left Jungkook’s house, you realized that that space had slowly been filled up with him. That over time, bit by bit, moment by moment, Jungkook returned what you had lost, revived what you thought had long been dead. 

The truth is that you wanted to stay with Jungkook because you couldn’t stomach the thought of being alone again. Of being forced to fend for yourself, forced to come home to an empty house with no one to waste away the night with. Of being forced to live like every day is a threat rather than a gift. 

Jungkook has magic in his fingertips and his heart. It was only a matter of time before it spread to you as well. 

Being hurt by someone you love feels like an arrow to the chest. Like a puncture wound, deep and piercing, but too painful to even want to pull it out, patch up the hole. You had already experienced it once. You didn’t have any plans on experiencing it again. 

But losing the opportunity to love someone feels like an ache throughout your whole body, this crippling sort of pain that spreads through your bloodstream, setting every organ it passes on fire. It feels like there is something tearing you apart from the inside out, like every piece of you is slowly crumbling. 

Jungkook’s biggest mistake wasn't falling in love with you. It was thinking that you were still falling in love with him, when the truth is, you had already fallen. It was letting you leave when both of you wanted nothing more than for you to stay. 

Loving someone is a gamble. It’s a risk, a toe in the water, a spark from your fingers. 

But not loving someone? That is magic, wasted. 

Who knew twenty dollars could get you one large pizza and extra garlic rolls? Certainly not you. 

The smell wafts through the hallway to Jungkook’s apartment, filling it with the scent of warm, fresh bread, of a hot meal waiting to be devoured. If you don’t knock soon, the pizza will go cold and you’ll probably eat all of it before you can even say hello to him. You have more food in your hands now than you have the past week you’ve been back at your old place. 

You ring the doorbell. 

 “Coming!” Jungkook shouts. Oh, is he expecting someone?

Ten seconds later the door opens to reveal someone you hardly even recognize. Gone are the soft loose strands of hair and oversized button down shirts. Jungkook opens the door still wearing his suit jacket, tie tight around his neck, like he hasn’t bothered to change since he got home from work over two hours ago. His hair is sleek and straight, a little shorter than you last remember it. He looks the way he did when you first met him, this rigid, workaholic guy that doesn’t care about anybody except himself. He looks like he’s done nothing but work for a week. Not even sleep. 

“Hi,” you begin, a short, quick intake of breath. “Did you order a pizza?”

“No.” Jungkook shakes his head, already starting to close the door. “I think you have the wrong apartment.”

“Wait, Jungkook, please? I need to talk to you,” you plead, a hand going out to stop him from shutting you out completely. All that you can see through the crack of space between the door and its frame are his piercing brown eyes, absolutely unreadable. He doesn’t budge. “Also, did you just get back from work? You must be starving. And as it so happens, I have an entire large pizza that I won’t be able to finish all by myself.”

Jungkook budges a little bit. 

“Please?”

“Fine,” he says reluctantly, opening the door. “I hope you aren’t planning on staying here too long, this time.”

The words are biting cold, send angry shivers down your spine. 

“Just enough for you to hear me out,” you say, placing the pizza box on the coffee table as Jungkook rummages through his kitchen for plates. He eventually manifests two paper ones—you didn’t even know he had those!—and returns, taking a seat on the carpet as he inhales the cheesy, greasy scent. 

Your stomach grumbles, but you can’t eat just yet. First, you have to explain yourself. 

“What did you want to talk about?” Jungkook asks, cold and distant, the same way he spoke to all of his employees before you encouraged him to do otherwise. “If it’s about my company, we can compensate you as necessary for your contribution. It won’t be much, though.”

“No, no, it’s not about that,” you say with a shake of your head. “It’s about us.”

“What ‘us’ is there to talk about?” He asks economically. 

“The ‘us’ that I left behind that day,” you say softly, a gentle reminder. “The ‘us’ I should have realized existed before I let the door shut behind me.”

“If you’re just here to tell me that you’re sorry for not loving me back, don’t,” Jungkook says bitterly. “I don’t expect you to love me back or anything. You can’t change how you feel about people.”

“You still love me?” You ask, a spark, a flash, a ray of light. 

Jungkook grumbles. “Yes. It doesn’t go away that easily.” 

“You aren’t stupid, or foolish, or idiotic for thinking that I was falling in love with you at the same time that you were falling in love with me,” you tell him, the words light and airy, like weights plucked off of your chest, like butterflies released from a jar. “You were stupid for thinking that I wasn’t already in love with you.”

Jungkook’s head jerks up, eyes blinking wildly. You can see the way that they glisten, with hope, with tears, with desperation. With the possibility that not all is lost. 

That old memories can become new once more. 

“You were right,” you muse, more to yourself than to anyone else. Even Jungkook. “Magic, powers, love, they’re all the same thing. They are meant to be treasured. Cherished. Protected. They are meant to make us feel special.” You breathe, reaching out next to you, an open hand for Jungkook to take. “But most importantly, they are meant to be shared.”

A small smile. A lip half-turned up, this gentle little grin. 

“I stayed because I wanted to keep sharing my life with you, Jeon Jungkook,” you tell him honestly, because it’s real and it’s true. Because, at this point, you can imagine nothing else. “And I’m here again because I can’t stand living without you anymore. I never want to stop sharing my life with you.”

“You make me feel like my heart is made of magic,” Jungkook admits, finally, finally, finally. “You make me want to use it just for you.”

“You don’t need to,” you say, pressing yourself into him, letting your lips hover above his own. He reaches a hand out, lets it rest on your waist, waiting desperately for you to close the last inch between the two of you. “You’re already made of it.”

With that, you close the gap, pressing your lips against his, the soft sweet cherry taste of his lip balm filling up your senses, leaving you gasping for air. It’s just a kiss, just a press of lips, this simple gesture, but it takes your breath away nevertheless. It makes you feel like magic swirls inside of you, like your heart is sparking, catching fire, sending it sizzling through your veins. Jungkook has taught you what it means for a house to become a home. You have taught him that magic is only special if he has someone to share it with. 

It’s hard to think about the lessons you would have never learned without the other. 

It’s hard to think about how different life would be, had you never even met. 

Jungkook kisses you and it feels like you’re finally whole. It feels like what has been missing in your life has returned. What you have kept locked up, in the dusty, cobwebbed corners of your heart, in the spaces between your bones, has finally been remembered. 

Jungkook takes your old memories and turns them new. He is the only thing you ever want to remember.

“I love you,” he whispers, watching as the words sink into your skin, leaving embers in their wake. “You are my most precious gift.”

“You are my home, Jeon Jungkook,” you murmur. “I love you, too.”

Pizza is good and all, but nothing beats homemade kimchi stew. 

You made it all by yourself for the first time last night to celebrate Jungkook donating over a million dollars to various different animal rescues and human rights organizations, taking the kindness that he has been given and paying it forward. Besides, he can make money at the touch of a finger whenever he wants, so he might as well, right?

You also don’t accompany Jungkook at his work anymore, because you’ve gotten enough of a taste of office life and have declared it not your ideal profession, but the nice thing about that is getting the whole house to yourself while he’s gone. Not that you want to do very much without him, but napping in different bedrooms is always exciting. 

You never realized how good love makes you feel. How it lifts you up from the inside out, brightens up every day no matter how dull it is to begin with. You had forgotten. What love can do to a person. 

Jungkook always comes home and tells you about how happy his employees make him whenever they’re happy. Good feelings like joy, like laughter, like love, they are contagious. It’s a wonder that neither you nor Jungkook figured that out before you met each other. 

Well, you suppose that there’s a first for everything. 

Jungkook comes home and you can hear the door slam, even from where you’re hiding. You listen as he stops at the door, picks up the note that you left for him. 

Loser washes the dishes! ♡

You hear his keys clink in the bowl, metal on metal. He pauses for a moment, for dramatic effect. 

And then he shouts, 

“You’re on!”

↳ links are broken, but don’t forget to message me with any thoughts or feedback!

[spicymayo1983]

Hiya. If you haven't yet seen the 2013 erotic thriller In Secret starring Elizabeth Olsen, Oscar Isaac and Jessica Lange I highly recommend it. I've watched it twice in the past month. Lol.

Oscar's character Laurent Leclaire is so sensual, so devious that I decided to write a short, filthy little fanfic starring you, the reader, and him.

Laurent is sexy evil personified, sigh.

The setting is 1860's Paris. The story takes place before Laurent meets Elizabeth Olsen's character Therese. You are a young (nothing illegal, you are 19) virgin artists model that gets seduced and absolutely ravished by the dominant, more worldly Laurent one evening in his studio when you are posing for him.

Warnings, female receiving oral sex, dominance, frank descriptions of painful virginity loss, rough sex, language, not for anyone under 18. Just pure, gratuitous, thirsty smut. Lol.

But it's set in the Victorian Era so that makes it classy? Lmao.

Touch and taste

Things started out fairly innocent enough. You met him at your older sister's dinner party one evening.

He is a friend of your sister's husband, they went to school together.

Your sister is much more outgoing than you and at 19 you are still unmarried, having never even held hands with a man before.

You live with your sister and brother in law in an old but tidy home in Paris. You are middle class and the home is well decorated and furnished. Your sister is expecting her first child and you are looking forward to helping care for the infant.

The two of you have a warm, loving relationship.

Even for the Victorian Era you are painfully shy, your sister had to beg you to come to her party.

There are several single men there and she's trying to find you a suitor, a potential husband.

He was an artist, and his name was Laurent Leclaire.

You sat across from the mysterious, brooding man and as you attempted to make small talk with the other guests you couldn't help but notice from the corner of your eye how he looked at you.

It was like Laurent was studying you, taking in your shy, delicate beauty. When your eyes finally meet he flashes you a devilish little smirk that sends a shiver down your spine.

Your face turns bright red and you immediately look down.

In the glow of the candlelight you can make out his absurdly beautiful chiseled features. His curly hair, dark eyes, and of course that smile. He made you feel things, unfamiliar feelings that terrified you somewhat. You feel a twinge, an ache, coming from somewhere inside of you. Somewhere where good, Christian women don't normally get those feelings

"Oh dear, what's wrong?" Your sister asks, noticing your flush.

"It's nothing". You reply quickly with a nervous giggle.

"Perhaps I've imbibed in too much wine, I'll be fine".

"Oh my it's getting worse!" The older lady sitting next to your sister exclaimed.

You happen to catch a glimpse of yourself in a mirror hanging on the wall across from you. Indeed the flush has gotten worse, your pale cheeks are as red as cherries.

"Let's get you upstairs". Your sister insists, helping you get to your feet.

"No I'm fine". You reply, sounding slightly irritated.

"You look terribly unwell". Your sister continues. "Come with me".

You reluctantly follow your sister upstairs to your room. You have to pass the handsome stranger on the way by, and you could have sworn you felt his hand brush yours, and then down the soft velvet of your skirt.

Once upstairs your sister helps you undress. You crawl into your bed and she brings you a cup of warm tea.

"You have a fever". Your sister frets as she lays her hand on your forehead.

"Quit fussing over me I assure you that I'm fine". You reply, smiling a little as you begin work on the embroidery project that was waiting by your bed.

"How am I ever to find a suitor with you making me leave the party early?"

"There's noone suitable there". Your sister replies sharply.

"What about the dark haired gentleman across from us?" You inquire, a slight smile creeping across your face.

"His name is Laurent and he is nothing but trouble". Your sister snaps back. "Stay away from him, I mean it, he will ruin your reputation".

Your sister's harsh words surprise you a bit, but you now have a name, Laurent, and you are also intrigued by your sister's stern warning.

Ruin my reputation? What on earth does that mean? You wonder as you nod off to sleep.

The next morning you are awakened by the familiar smell of food cooking and the sound of men talking. Sleepily you leave your bedroom and step into the hallway.

It's him again. You catch a glimpse of Laurent talking to your brother in law in the foyer. You immediately duck back into your bedroom and hastily get dressed.

You dash down the stairs quickly, brushing past Laurent. You look at him and flash a shy smile, he smiles back warmly.

You enjoy a nice leisurely, breakfast with your sister, brother in law and Laurent. You catch him glancing at you again, your face turns a light shade of pink.

Afterwards Laurent catches you alone in the foyer. You formally introduce yourself, Laurent kisses your hand.

"Your features. They're so classically pretty, like a sculpture". Laurent tells you as a rather seductive smile appears on his handsome face.

"I'd like to, if you wouldn't mind, paint you".

You giggle nervously at his proposition as your face turns pink. Laurent gently touches your flushed cheek,

you look at him and say nervously, "I'll do it".

"Wear that beautiful velvet dress you had on last night, and the pearl earrings too". Laurent replied, looking into your eyes.

The next afternoon you nervously arrive at Laurent's small flat/art studio, which was only a short walk from your own home.

As soon as he opens the door he smiles brightly and takes your hand. He leads you to a small room, where you sit on a chair in front of an easel.

Laurent sits next to you, looks deeply into your eyes and says,

"Tell me more about you, y/n, I like to learn more about my subject before I paint them".

"There isn't much to say really". You reply quickly, your face turning bright red again. "I'm 19, from Paris, I love my sister and brother in law. Both our parents passed years ago."

"You get embarrassed around the opposite sex, don't you?" Laurent pressed, taking your hand in his and stroking it. "You're so innocent like a child, but at the same time I know you're curious".

The man has read you like a book, you gasp a little at his words and start to tremble noticeably. Laurent leans over and kisses you gently on the cheek.

"Can I kiss your beautiful lips?" He continues, his breathing changing a little due to his own arousal.

"I've never done this, kissing". You reply, the heat from the lower part of your body becoming almost unbearable. "You'd have to show me".

"Open your mouth a little bit". Laurent orders, stroking your cheek with his strong hand. "Follow what I do".

He passionately kisses you using his tongue, you're shocked but quickly mime what he is doing. One of his hands drifts to your lap and he starts to stroke the wetness that is hidden by your pantaloons.

"Undress for me, I want to see my beautiful subject, all of you". Laurent orders, not asks.

You are so caught up in the moment, in him, that you obey his commands.

Noone has ever seen you like this, male or female. Well, maybe your sister. Definitely no men. You are trembling a little as you stand before him.

Laurent uses a paintbrush to trace and tease your body, you can see his hard manhood through his trousers.

"Let's go into my bedroom, I want to touch and taste you". He orders.

You go into his bedroom and recline on his bed. Laurent undresses, revealing his lean, muscular body.

His hard cock looks massive, intimidating, you've only seen them in medical journals and you've had no idea that they were this large in person. Perhaps it's just his own personal endowment.

Laurent kneels between your trembling legs and gently spreads them.

"It looks like an orchid, a fragile, pink orchid, it's so beautiful". Laurent tells you as he teasingly massages your intricate folds that are peeking through a thick patch of hair with his fingers.

He leaves you for a moment and grabs a sketch pad, he uses charcoal and quickly sketches your womanhood. When Laurent is done he shows you, you gasp a little and say, "I've never seen this side of myself".

"Can I touch and taste your petals?" Laurent pushes, you can see the desire burning in his eyes.

"Taste? What do you mean?" You ask, innocently having no clue what he means.

"Let me show you". Laurent purrs, leading you back over to his bed. "Tell me where you want my tongue".

You relax on the bed again, you gently spread your legs and he kneels before you and spreads them further.

He touches his tongue on your sensitive bud, causing you to immediately tremble from pleasure.

Laurent begins to suck and lick your frilly inner lips, you moan with delight from the intense sensation that you are feeling spread throughout your body.

What he's doing to you feels so good yet so sinful, and dirty.

Laurent's tongue moves down further, and he hits a barrier, your hymen is still intact and fairly thick, he gives it a gentle little flick with his tongue.

He then buries his face into your hairy mound, taking in your sweet, musky scent, the tip of his nose brushing against your wetness.

Your scent makes him moan from delight, Laurent is showing you just how much he savors and appreciates the female anatomy.

He teasingly strokes your innocence with his finger, being extra careful not to penetrate it or break it.

It's almost like he's in awe and aroused at that little barrier.

"My cock needs you, I need to feel this". Laurent begs, you can see the precum oozing from his hard tip.

"It's for my husband". You reply quickly and nervously.

"Noone cares about that anymore, especially in this city". Laurent tells you with a quick laugh.

You are so worked up and attracted to him that you relent, he spreads your legs again and positions himself on top of you.

Laurent starts to enter you, you gasp and sputter in a mixture of agony and pleasure as he slowly penetrates you, both of you can feel the moment your hymen breaks, spilling a considerable amount of blood on his sheets.

"Does it hurt?" Laurent asks.

"Yes". You reply, tears rolling down your cheeks.

"Good". He replies, thrusting into you harder.

With your legs wrapped firmly around his waist Laurent fucks you, hard. The pain quickly turns to pleasure as you become more comfortable with his body.

When he cums he fills you with a fairly large load as he moans and sputters. Afterwards Laurent spreads your legs again, and sticks his tongue deep inside of you, tasting a mixture of your juices.

Your sister is correct. If Satan himself walked the earth his name would be Laurent Leclaire. The man is so virile, so charming and so handsome that even you, the shy, innocent virgin relented to his charms.

Afterwards with his help you get redressed. As he's lacing you into your corset Laurent gently kisses and nuzzles your neck, muttering about how beautiful you are.

You sit with him through the night and he does indeed paint your portrait, as promised.

"You touched my hand and dress when I was walking by at the dinner party, didn't?" You ask, your face turning pink again.

"Of course". He replied, chuckling a little. "I wanted to see if you were as soft and delicate as you looked. Your silken hand felt just like the beautiful fabric of your gown".

"Why the pink background?" You continue, smiling a little.

"The pink represents the blushing of your cheeks". Laurent explains, sounding like every bit the serious artist. "And the colors of your beautiful petals, you are truly a masterpiece of God's creation".

The end

[longing-and-heartache-and-lust]

the drug, the dark, the light, the flame, Ch.XIV

[previous] [next] [Ao3]

A brand new chapter of my work for this year’s @geraskierbigbang in collaboration with my favourite @gen-syz-art as my artist 💕

_____________________

For as long as Geralt could remember, spending four days in bed had always sounded unthinkable.

Even in Kaer Morhen, during the long winters of the Blue Mountains, he could never even consider staying in bed for that long, only getting out to take a bath and change the sheets.

It had always seemed like an unnecessary luxury, a waste of time that could’ve been better spent.

But, like quite a few times before, he finds himself proven wrong by Jaskier.  

They stay in bed for half a week, talking, sleeping and doing just about anything they can think of to each other.

Jaskier ends up with countless marks of different colour and size all over his neck, chest and thighs, and Geralt has his back scratched raw, and it’s more than perfect.

They take longs baths together, unable to break away from each other for as much as a few minutes, and though Jaskier tries to keep Geralt’s hands away from the mark on his back, the witcher inevitably finds his way to it, making Jaskier gasp and arch his back at every touch.

He’s desperate to find out just how far he could take it before it gets too much but he waits patiently for the right moment.

Whenever Arthur or one of the housekeepers knocks on the door to bring them breakfast or dinner - or yet another pot of the neverending sweet tea - Jaskier makes them both hide under the covers, only eyes and noses left above them, and giggles when Geralt reaches out to get a grip on his bare thigh when no-one can see. In Jaskier’s words, he’s protecting their modesty but they both know that he’s just having fun.

That’s not to say that Geralt isn’t having his own kind of fun, of course.

Over the four days that they spend in bed together, neither of them gets dressed once, and the witcher uses that to his full advantage, mapping out Jaskier’s body with his hands and lips at every opportunity that he gets.

And when they do finally decide that it’s time to get out, he’s even more hopelessly in love than before.

“You just can’t keep your hands off me, can you, Witcher?” Jaskier murmurs, looking at him through the mirror as he does up the laces on his shirt and Geralt leaves his place on the bed to come closer and wrap his arms around him from the back.

He smells of dried herbs, vanilla and pomegranate. He also smells of pleasure, sex and Geralt.

It’s an intoxicating combination.

“You can always tell me to stop,” Geralt grins, nosing at the bard’s neck and pressing a kiss to one of the fresh marks.

He’s still completely naked while Jaskier is almost fully dressed, and the soft silk of his shirt feels nice against Geralt’s skin. Not as good as Jaskier’s warmth but he’s not complaining.

Jaskier responds with a soft pleased rumble from somewhere deep in his chest, and throws his head back, resting it on the witcher’s shoulder.

“We look good together,” he says after Geralt steals a kiss from his lips. “Especially like this.”

And Geralt can’t deny that they do.

He loves the contrast between them, loves the way Jaskier’s slender frame looks against his own, the way his perfect skin compares to the witcher’s scars. Loves the way Jaskier’s chestnut hair stands out against Geralt’s silver.

Jaskier turns around in his arms, running a gentle hand down Geralt’s cheek, and his eyes look so soft that it makes the witcher’s heart ache in his chest.

“You know,” he says, adjusting the lacing on Jaskier’s shirt. “The winter had only just begun but I could stay with you through all of it. If you’ll have me.”

He can feel Jaskier’s heart skip a beat.

“You don’t want to go home?” he asks, barely above a whisper.

Geralt hums and leaves the lacing alone, tipping Jaskier’s chin up to look at him.

“I want to be with you,” he says. “I miss my family but this winter, I want to be with you. And next year, we can go to Kaer Morhen together, hm?”

Jaskier averts his eyes, worrying his lower lip between his teeth.

“Geralt--”

“I’ll get you out of here by next winter,” the witcher says, cutting him off before Jaskier can remind him of the curse, and brushing a lock of hair out of his face. “I promise, Jask. we’ll find a way to break the curse, and we’ll be free to go anywhere we want.”

“Anywhere?” Jaskier echoes quietly, still hiding his eyes.

Geralt pulls him closer and leans in, leaving a warm, chaste kiss on the bard’s forehead.

“Anywhere,” he nods. “What about Toussaint, hm? How do you like wine and pretentious banquets?”

Jaskier laughs, though Geralt can still feel that familiar undertone of sadness in his scent, and catches the witcher’s lips in a quick kiss.

“Wine and pretentious banquets,” he smiles, leaning into Geralt’s touch with his entire body. “Sounds wonderful.”

***

It takes Geralt a little while to write a letter home.

He spends a few days thinking it over, looking for the right words, and when he finally sits down to put them on paper, he writes and then burns two letters before finally finding himself happy with what he’d written.

In the letter, he says that he won’t be coming home this year and that they shouldn’t be worried about him because he’s in a safe place. He says that Jaskier had forgiven him for leaving, and that if they want to know more about it, they should ask Eskel because he’s not going to spend the entire winter composing letters to Lambert just to satisfy his curiosity.

That part of the letter is easy.

But then he writes about the curse, asking for help with breaking it, and that is when it gets much harder. He tries to give as many details as he can while also trying to keep out the ones that he feels Jaskier wouldn’t want anyone else to know. It would’ve been easier to ask him but Geralt doesn’t want to bring the subject up when he can avoid it.

He’d seen enough of his tears.

After the first letter is folded and sealed, Geralt stays behind the desk, fidgeting with his medallion until he finally takes another piece of parchment and writes a second one, addressed only to Vesemir.

In that letter, he does go into more details, including the way Jaskier’s magic feels, and mentions, though briefly, that it’s so strong that it might not be as dependent on the curse as Jaskier thinks. It’s only a theory, of course, and maybe he’s just seeing what he wants to see, but it’s better if Veserim knows as much as Geralt can tell him. And there’s one more thing that he’s missing.

He sneaks a look at Jaskier who’s too busy with a new poem to notice, and his chest gets tight with just how much it makes him feel - seeing the bard so comfortable around him.

Geralt signs and folds the letter, putting it to the side to send out in the morning, and gets up from his place, crossing the room over to Jaskier where he’s half-lying on the settee, an open notebook in his lap.

“Can I ask you something?” Geralt says, sitting down on the floor next to him.

Jaskier looks up from his notes, and the witcher sighs affectionately at the smear of ink on his lower lip. As he reaches out to wipe it off, Jaskier dips his head, leaving a smudged kiss on the back of his hand, eyes shining with something that Geralt can only hope is a reflection of his own feelings.

“What is it, darling?”

Geralt chews on his lower lip for a moment, thinking about the best way to ask the question he’d been thinking about for the last five months.

And, well, there aren’t too many options.

“There’s a town a few hours away from here,” he finally says. “I stop there for the night whenever I’m making my way from the south. And when I was there back in summer, the innkeeper told me something that I’ve been meaning to ask you about.”

Jaskier cocks a brow at him, intrigued. Geralt takes a deep breath.

“The innkeeper told me that-- you’re a prince.”

The bard’s blue eyes widen in surprise and he parts his lips to say something but then decides against it, breaking into laughter.

The heat on Geralt’s chest quickly makes its way up to his face, and he averts his eyes, refusing to acknowledge the blush on his cheeks.

“And do you believe everything that innkeepers tell you?” Jaskier finally manages, reaching out to brush a silver lock out of Geralt’s face. “And what am I a prince of, if I may ask?”

“Redania,” Geralt mutters, still hiding his eyes even as Jaskier leans down to touch his lips to his cheekbone. “And it’s not just the innkeeper. The entire town thinks so. But clearly, they don’t know what they’re talking about.”

Jaskier tilts his head to one side, biting on his lower lip and runs his gaze over Geralt’s frame like he’s testing his limits.

“Did I say that they don’t?”

And that… gods, that just confuses Geralt even more.

He’d spent the last five months assured that Jaskier really is a prince of Redania, and even after learning that the mansion and everything inside is created by magic, that he’s trapped here because he’s cursed and not because he needs to be kept out of the public focus, it was the way Jaskier acted, dressed, talked that still made Geralt believe that he’s of royal blood.

“You won’t give a definitive answer, will you?” Geralt sighs, finally looking up at the bard.

Jaskier shakes his head with a conspiratory smile.

“I’m afraid I cannot, my love,” he murmurs, and the endearment makes Geralt’s heart skip a beat. “Stability of the kingdom might be at stake.”

Geralt rolls his eyes and, before Jaskier can protest, pulls him down from his settee and onto the floor, pinning him under his body. The bard gasps but his eyes snap up to meet Geralt’s immediately, holding his gaze.

“And what if I am what they say I am?” he grins, wrapping both arms around Geralt’s neck to keep him close. “Would it change anything - knowing that you’re sleeping with a prince?”

Geralt doesn’t tell him that that’s exactly what he thinks this relationship is, simply because Jaskier is already self-assured enough and he doesn’t want to give him that pleasure. Instead, he dips his head down to nip at the bard’s lower lip and then breaks away before Jaskier can pull him into a proper kiss.

“You’re not asking the right question,” he says, mirroring the bard’s grin. “Haven’t you been warned what witchers can do to fragile little princes?”

Jaskier’s eyes light up with mischievous interest.

“My memory must be failing me,” he says, slipping his fingers into Geralt’s hair and hooking a leg over the small of his back in a move that he’d had more than enough time to practice over the last week. “But I'm dying to know.”

Without allowing Jaskier to pull him into a kiss, Geralt finds his way to his neck, leaving an open-mouthed, possessive kiss right under the sharp of the bard’s jaw, and he barely even notices as he undoes the laces on the front of his shirt.

“Well,” he murmurs, a soft rumble to his voice as he intercepts both Jaskier’s wrists and pins them above his head. “Then let me show you.”

***

It’s much, much later that they get to their bed and finally settle in for the night.

Sated and content, Jaskier makes himself comfortable on Geralt’s chest, tracing slow circles onto it, and it’s just about everything that the witcher needs to feel like he’s where he’s supposed to be.

He leans down, touching a soft kiss to the top of Jaskier’s head, and smiles at the pleased little sound he gets in return.

The dogs are long asleep on the far end of the bed, and the room is pleasantly quiet, the silence disturbed only by the soft crackling of the wood in the fireplace and the wind outside. Winter in this part of Redania takes its hold fast, and behind the windows, everything is covered in a blanket of fresh snow.

It’s peaceful, even more so than in Kaer Morhen.

The keep always has something happening within it, be it endless repairs or even more endless trainings, there are chores and duties to wake up to every morning, and it can sometimes get obnoxiously loud; but here, in the mansion, Geralt can just… rest.

He can wake up every morning with Jaskier’s familiar warmth close to him, and then spend the entire day just stealing kisses from him on every occasion he gets only to then fall asleep at night with the bard’s weight against his chest.

It’s a little selfish, of course, and Geralt had never thought that he’d be happy like this, that this kind of life was ever meant for a witcher but gods, he loved him so much.

It almost hurt, just how hopelessly gone he was.

“You know,” Jaskier murmurs, brushing his thumb over a thin scar on Geralt’s chest and then lifting his medallion with his magic, making it hum violently. “There are times when I feel like I’ve known you forever.”

Geralt takes the medallion away from him and instead laces their fingers together, the soft tingle of magic sending a shiver down his back.

“Maybe you have,” he hums, bringing their linked hands up to his lips to touch a kiss to Jaskier’s knuckles and let him go. “Do you believe in past lives?”

Jaskier turns to rest his chin upon Geralt's chest, looking up at him from under his lashes. They’re both completely naked, and his warm skin feels perfect against the witcher’s as he settles right on top.

“I suppose,” he says after a pause. “Do you?”

Geralt isn’t sure if he believes in past lives. He’d never really thought about it but then again, he’d never thought he’d be in love with a man who - and now he’s even more sure of it - is a prince of Redania.

“Maybe,” he says finally, shrugging with one shoulder. “And if they are real, then maybe we knew each other in a life before this one.”

Jaskier smiles, seemingly pleased with the thought, and his magic gets stronger, snaking around his fingers in shifting colours of blue and purple, slithering up Geralt’s skin like painless flames, making him shiver.  

“I like the sound of that,” Jaskier murmurs, tilting his head to the side as his magic gets to Geralt’s hair, runs through it, making the witcher’s breath stutter. “A different life, but still with you.”

It feels almost the same way that it does when Jaskier runs his fingers through his hair but the magic gets right under his skin, brushes over his every nerve, and there’s nothing Geralt can do to suppress another shiver.

“A different life, but still with me,” he echoes, catching and holding Jaskier’s gaze. “Would you want that?”

Jaskier smiles.

“A different life?”

“A life with me.”

Geralt can feel his heart beating hard and fast in his chest. It’s just four words but they just might’ve required more courage from him than any hunt he’d ever been on.

Jaskier shifts, moving closer, and cups Geralt’s cheek with one hand, looking into his eyes before leaning in even more and kissing him, slowly and softly.

“I would,” he smiles as he breaks away, resting his forehead against Geralt’s, his hand still resting on the sharp of his jaw. “I would, darling.”

Geralt’s heart starts beating even faster, almost painfully, as he thinks over the words that he’d been meaning to say for weeks now. It’s absolutely horrifying, the thought alone, but if he’s being brave with his words, he might as well go all the way.

“Jask?--” he calls softly, keeping his eyes closed and catching the bard’s lips in one more kiss before finally letting go. “I love you.”

Jaskier’s breath catches, his heart skipping a beat in his chest, and he pulls back, looking Geralt in the eye for an endlessly long moment, searching for something, until finally his lips curl up into a smile and he surges forward, pulling Geralt into a heated, messy kiss.

“Gods, Geralt--” he whispers, their lips still touching, and kisses him again. “The things you do to me--”

Geralt can barely breathe as the bard finds his hand and brings it up to his chest, pressing it over his heart, breathing like a bird in a cage.

“Oh, my darling,” Jaskier runs his hands over Geralt’s face, catching his lips with his own again. “I love you more.”

A weight falls off Geralt’s chest, and the lightness that takes its place makes him feel lightheaded for a moment or two.

“Not possible,” he grins, wrapping his arms around Jaskier’s back and pulling him so close that he knows there are going to be bruises in the morning.

Jaskier gasps at the pressure on his ribs but then just laughs, finding Geralt’s lips without looking and rolling over to flip them both around, throwing his arms around Geralt’s neck, the smile never leaving his lips.

It’s a strange, new feeling for Geralt but he can’t deny how good it feels. How fast it makes his heart beat - knowing that Jaskier feels the same way.

“I wanted to tell you sooner,” he whispers in-between kisses, propping himself up on one elbow and running his free hand down Jaskier’s side. “I knew-- for a long time.”

Jaskier laughs, and the fire in the hearth flares up with his magic.

“For how long?” he asks.

Geralt breaks away from his lips and moves lower, to Jaskier’s collarbones, covered in his marks.

“Since that night you took me out into the gardens to see the stars,” he says. “But I only realised it after I talked to my brother in Novigrad. He was the first one to say it out loud, and once he did, everything just… fell into place.”

Rolling around on the bed, they wake up the dogs, and once they see the smile on Jaskier’s face, both Asra and Lucio take it as their cue to crawl closer and lick at his face, making the bard laugh and let go of Geralt, shielding himself with his arms.

Geralt doesn’t even think about helping him, just turns to fall onto his back beside Jaskier, and scrunches his nose when Asra picks him as her new target, getting drool all over him.

And this… makes him feel like he belongs.

Like for the first time in his life, he belongs somewhere other than Kaer Morhen. 

[truth-from-lies-in-fiction]

Making it Count

To celebrate their final Christmas before graduating from Auradon Prep, the Rotten Four take an impromptu trip to a cabin on the edges of a snow-covered forest. But will they be able to stop fighting long enough to enjoy each other's company, or are things coming to an end for the VKs?

-Written as a Secret Santa gift for @bunny-lou. Bunny-Lou, it’s been a pleasure being your Secret Santa for a second year in a row. I’ve really enjoyed tapping back into the bond shared by the VKs, and I hope you’ll enjoy the results. I apologize this is being posted a couple days past Christmas; my computer crashed two days before Christmas, and I’ve been playing catch-up since. I’m so glad to read that you had an amazing holiday, and I hope this week continues to be amazing for you. Happy holidays, my dear! And to @descendantsgiftexchange, thank you for all the work you do in putting this together every year.

~*~

Mal winds the borrowed van through a landscape of frost, squinting to see through tufts of falling snow. Muted moonlight shines through the windshield, guiding her and the Rotten Four on this, the journey to their final prep school Christmas.

They sit in silence.

Jay leans against the rear passenger window, furrowing his forehead in silent thought.

Carlos, seated on the other side, toys with the remnants of a candy wrapper and stares into nothingness.

Evie, on Mal’s right, sends glances skittering throughout the car. Toward the boys. Toward the falling snow. Toward Mal, who has not looked at her since they slid into the warmth of the van two hours earlier.

Or since the fight they’d shared just before that.

Mal bunches her fingers around the steering wheel, trying to push the words, the looks, the feelings of that fight from her mind. Trying and failing miserably. She squeezes the wheel until her knuckles turn white, while the image of Evie’s biting, betrayed glare pushes through her mind.

What do you mean you aren’t going to college? Evie’s words had pinched together like the punches of a sewing machine. We promised we’d go together.

Mal had hidden her gaze behind a fall of her hair. Anything to avoid that burning look in Evie’s eyes. College just isn’t for me. The lie tasted spoiled and burnt, like scorched milk meant to be sweet. She swallowed it down and turned her back. Maybe it’s time we were apart, Evie.

Apart? Evie curled her fingers around Mal’s arm. You’ve been pushing me away all year, and now you’re ready to run?

Evie’s voice broke on the final word, and a fissure went through Mal’s heart.

She opened her mouth to answer, but the truth died on her tongue. The boys will be here soon. She pulled her arm away. Get ready. I’ll warm up the van.

Now, as Mal turns the van around another curve leading to their rented cabin, the truth is bitter and hollow upon her tongue. She ignores Evie’s penetrating stare, the one strong enough to slip beneath her skin, and keeps her gaze focused on the tufts of snow illuminating this, one of the darkest nights of the year.

~*~

They round another turn taking them to the cabin, and Carlos scrunches the candy wrapper in his fist.

Jay still won’t look at him. Or talk to him. Or do anything but grunt, like he did when Carlos slid into the bucket seat beside him in the van.

Carlos tosses him a glance now. “Be good to get inside.”

Jay shrugs and offers a grunt.

Carlos sighs. “We’ll have to get a fire going. You know, to keep the place warm. Ben says the heat won’t kick on until tomorrow.”

“Whatever.” Jay runs his fingers along his tourney stick.

That stupid tourney stick. Carlos stuffs the candy wrapper into his jacket pocket along with his fist. That thing gets more attention than I do nowadays.

Jay lifts the stick in the space between seats and studies its tip, chipped from the previous year’s tourney championship. “Should probably get this thing fixed.”

Six words. More than he’s spoken to me in days. Carlos leans closer. “You’ll need it in good shape for when you join the kingdom’s tourney league after graduation.”

Jay frowns at the stick. “Nah. League’ll give me a new one.”

“Oh.”

Jay drops the stick onto the floor, then turns his head to stare outside at the silhouettes of mountains lining the road.

Carlos searches for something, anything to say, to keep this conversation going. Words form on his lips, then fizzle and fade. What do you say to a guy who’s decided you’re not good enough for him? He slinks into his seat. I’ve already said everything I can, and all he does is grunt.

He turns his head to stare outside his own window at the lines of towering fir trees, a direct contrast to Jay’s mountain ranges.

~*~

Jay pushes from his seat the moment Mal parks at the edges of Sherwood Forest, where the cabin is a dark shape within a grove of pine trees. He stumbles and his toes collide with his tourney stick, kicking it half-beneath the seat in front. Grumbling, he bends to retrieve it.

“Here.” Carlos slides to his knees and reaches for the stick.

Their fingers touch. Touch and linger.

A warmth like a brush fire flickers beneath Jay’s fingertips.

Carlos glances up, right into his eyes, and their gazes connect.

Jay snatches his hand away, flashing on the faces of his soon-to-be tourney teammates, who most definitely do not feel brush fires when they touch other guys.

Breaking eye contact with Carlos, he tugs his hand through his hair. “Leave it, man. Not like I’m gonna be playing tourney in the snow.”

“Are you –?”

Carlos doesn’t have time to ask whatever question he’s gonna ask because Jay steps over him and hops out of the van.

The girls are outside, staring in that annoying way they do, with questions and accusations written in their eyes.

Those two see everything. Jay walks past them. “Do me a favor and bring my bag inside,” he calls over his shoulder. “I’m going looking for firewood.”

“Wow, Jay.” Mal’s voice is hexed with the kind of wicked vindictiveness she’d possessed back on the Isle. “Did you actually use up breath talking to us?”

Jay bunches his shoulders around his ears. “Don’t get used to it.”

He marches into the woods, leaving bootprints in the snow. His final words hang heavy in the frigid air, reminding him why they decided this trip was a good idea. Bonding and all that.

Trips like these are dangerous. They lead to unwanted touches and unasked-for stares. Jay snatches a thick branch from the ground, then another. Next year, we go our separate ways. We start our own lives. And no way am I agreeing to any more impromptu trips like this one.

For some reason, the thought leaves a hollow space in his chest.

~*~

Evie shivers awake in the early morning, tangled in a set of the cabin’s cotton sheets. The room is freezing. So cold, it makes her skin ache. She rolls over onto her side, hugging her knees to her chest, and stares through the window into the Christmas Eve morning.

The fir trees are still, the moon muted behind the fall of snow. Holly branches scratch the windowpane, their crimson berries the only splash of color in this winter world.

Evie’s mind ticks back to the Isle. A holly bush grew there, too. I’ll always remember.

Remember the year she cut its branches and placed them around the Rotten Four’s Clubhouse. For festive cheer, she’d said when Mal had arched a pointed eyebrow.

In the back-then, Mal had rolled her eyes and muttered something beneath her breath. But she’d stared at Evie’s decorations for longer than a heartbeat, her mouth scrunched up in that way it’s always scrunched when her mind and heart are full of secrets she doesn’t want to share.

The next day, more holly had been added, filling in the spaces left by Evie’s holly. Adding an artistic flair to Evie’s designer touch.

When Evie asked her about it, Mal’s cheeks turned pink. If we’re going to decorate for Christmas, we might as well make it count, she said, staring at her boots.

Jay and Carlos stared at the holly, too. The day after that, a Christmas tree appeared in the Clubhouse. Like you said, Jay said, hammering the tree into a cross of wooden planks while Carlos held it steady, might as well make it count.

Evie’s heart had felt lighter than Gossamer fabric. It was the first time they’d all come together after their first adventures on the Isle. The first time they’d spent Christmas together, too, gathered around the tree, telling stories and making jokes.

Nothing like how we are this year. In the here-and-now, Evie rolls over onto her back and stares at the ceiling. Nothing like how things will ever be again.

After they’d arrived at the cabin and Jay had made the fire, they’d spent about twenty minutes together before they’d all escaped to different rooms. Why don’t we sleep out here by the fire? she’d asked, but the boys had made excuses and Mal had given her an imperceptible dragon-eyed stare before each of three doors had shut and the locks had clicked.

Evie sighs. Her heart is a leaden weight, pressing her down into the mattress. Our last Christmas before we all go our separate ways, and they want to treat it like it’s nothing more than a burden.

She tosses her gaze back to the holly and her mind back to memories of that first Christmas on the Isle. Resolve bubbles like warm water beneath her skin. I won’t let them.

She kicks her blankets off and springs from the bed.

She dresses in her warmest clothes – a full-length blue jacket, knee-high blue boots and wooly blue mittens – and hushes from the room, clicking the door closed behind her.

In the living room, the dying fire glows with its final orange embers. She slides a poker from the stand beside the fireplace and pokes at the embers, making them flicker and flare. Selecting a few thick branches, she places them into the fledgling flames. The orange tongues lick at the wood, and the fire blazes back to life.

She slides off her mittens and raises her hands to the fire, brushing them together above the flames. Warmth washes across her skin, soothing her aches. Much better than the chill that’s pervaded this place since last night.

With a sigh, she casts a glance toward Mal’s closed door. Her mind flickers back to the dragon-eyed stare Mal had offered just before she’d closed her door, and to the biting green glare she’d given when she’d confessed that she hadn’t applied to college.

The warmth washing across Evie’s skin turns cold, making her shiver.

Mal hasn’t given her looks like that since they lived on the Isle, when Evie was her nuisance and Mal was almost a stranger. Not Evie’s best friend. Not the girl Evie had woken up to every day for two years.

How am I supposed to wake up knowing she isn’t there? She turns her gaze from Mal’s door and stares into the flames. Doesn’t she realize how important she is?

An ache forms deep inside, in a place the warmth can’t reach. Evie turns her back on the fire with its broken promises of heat and gazes around at the cabin.

There are no decorations here. Nothing to mark the fact that today is Christmas Eve, or that the Rotten Four are spending the holiday together.

At least I can do something about that. Evie shoves her hands back into her mittens. She grabs a few tools from some drawers and a closet, and then she disappears into the early December morning, her boots crunching pathways through the snow.

Three hours later, when her friends finally crack open their doors, shivering and rubbing at their eyes, the cabin is transformed. A Christmas tree perches in the middle of the living room, its emerald pine needles a warm contrast to the oranges and reds of the fire. Holly branches skirt along the mantle and the walls. A wreath of holly and berries rests upon the door. And several crimson candles flicker along the shelves.

Evie gazes at each of her friends: at Carlos, whose mouth hangs open, his gaze flicking to each of the decorations; at Jay, who takes a stumbling step into the room, a low whistle sounding from his throat; and at Mal, who gazes back not with a biting glare, but with a glance of warmth edged with something that makes Evie’s heart sprint.

The chill she’d felt deep inside flickers into a promise of heat. “Making it count,” she whispers, holding out her hands.

Mal winks. “Nice work.”

~*~

Things change. Become more bearable.

The girls sit together on the couch, stringing holly berries and popcorn onto strands to hang around the tree. And Carlos joins Jay in the kitchen on a mission to bake their weight in sugar cookies.

Breathing in the scent of fresh pine and cinnamon, Carlos pushes a wooden spoon through the mixture that will become dough.

Jay hovers over his shoulder, his warmth a caress against Carlos’ back. “Tasty,” he drawls, his voice in Carlos’ ear.

Carlos knocks back a breath. Does he realize what he’s doing? “Should be,” he says, shifting a little to put some distance between them. Last thing we need is another fight.

A mischievous chuckle sounds from Jay’s throat. He slides his hand into the bowl and pulls up a finger of dough mixture.

Carlos holds up his hands. “Come on, man. That’s for the oven, not –”

Jay lunges and streaks the mixture along Carlos’ jaw. “Whatcha gonna do about it, buddy?”

Carlos tosses down his wooden spoon. “Fight back,” he growls and reaches for the bowl.

Jay holds it up high. “Too bad you never grew those extra inches,” he says, patting Carlos’ head.

A thrill of electricity bunches in Carlos’ stomach. It’s just like always. Jay hassling me. Me hassling back. He reaches up and traps Jay’s hand before Jay can give his head any more pats.

With Jay’s hand cupped beneath his own, a flare of warmth radiates between their skin.

Jay stops.

Stops moving.

Stops laughing.

Stops breathing.

“Jay…” Carlos murmurs.

Jay blinks and snatches his hand away. “Come on,” he says, slamming the bowl onto the counter. “Let’s finish mixing this so we can eat.“

Just like that, the chill returns. Jay won’t look at him. Won’t talk to him. And when Carlos slides up beside him to finish stirring the dough, Jay shifts away.

“Fine, Jay.” Carlos kicks out at a cabinet, making a hollow wooden sound. “Whatever you want.”

On the couch in front of the fire, Evie is a warmth curled into Mal’s side. They sit together, stringing holly berries and popcorn to decorate the tree. Mal’s finger stings from three separate pricks of the needle, but her pain is a dull whisper quieted by Evie’s touch.

Mal slides a berry onto her thread. “I still can’t believe you did all this. How long did it take?”

“A few hours.” Evie pokes her needle through a piece of popcorn. “It was worth it, though.”

“Oh?”

“Mmm.” The corners of her lips curl into the beginnings of a smile. “I’d wake up even earlier just to see that look in your eyes, M.”

The warmth of the fire washes over Mal’s face. “What look?”

Evie spells her with a glance from the corner of her eyes, which have turned molten in the firelight. “The one you’re giving me right now. The one that’s happy and soul-deep and just for me.”

They gaze at each other for several scattered beats of Mal’s heart as the crackling fire does havoc on Mal’s body heat.

Mal slips from her jacket, leaving it on the couch, and drops her gaze to her strand of popcorn-and-holly-berries. “I didn’t know I had such a look,” is the lie that slides from her tongue before she can replace it with something truthful.

Of course she knows. She knows her looks, and she knows that she has exactly three of them for Evie.

The first, she offers when they’re watching TV or sharing Auradon gossip. The look of friendship.

The second, she punished her with last night when she wouldn’t let the college thing go. The look of dragon fire.

The third, she offers in the crimson firelight when Evie’s nestled in a ball by her side and heat that can’t just be firelight is warming Mal from head-to-toe. The look of all-things-dangerous.

Evie’s gaze is slip-beneath-Mal’s-skin penetrating.

In the background, there is a clatter as the boys’ conversation becomes louder. “It was just a touch, Jay,” Carlos says, his voice edged.

“Keep it to yourself, man.” Jay slams open the oven.

But all Mal knows is the sensation of Evie’s stare. A sensation that sprinkles goose bumps along her skin. It’s so intense that Mal looks away and slides another berry onto her needle.

The needle slips. The tip pokes into Mal’s skin. “Ouch.”

Evie drops her strand of popcorn-and-berries onto her lap and slides her hand around Mal’s, kneading Mal’s injury with the tips of her fingers. “What am I going to do without you?” she whispers, so low her words might be lost to the other sounds of the day. “When I go to college and you don’t?”

Great. The college thing. Again. She tugs her hand from Evie’s and stabs the needle back into the berry. “Drop it, Evie.”

“Why?” Evie covers Mal’s needle with her hand. “We should really talk about it. You broke your prom –”

Mal tugs her hand away. “I said ‘drop it,’ Evie.”

A bang echoes from the kitchen. “Dammit, Carlos. You just ruined the dough.”

“You distracted me. I wouldn’t have dropped it if you hadn’t kept snatching your hand away every time I tried to touch the bowl.”

The argument is lost on Evie, who’s still staring at Mal. “Fine.” Her nostrils flare. “We won’t talk about it.” She jumps to her feet. “Just tell me one thing, Mal. Why did you lie to me about college?”

“That’s still talking about it, Evie!” A flare of dragon fire burns through Mal’s blood, and she jumps to her feet, too. Her strand of popcorn-and-berries falls to the floor. “And I didn’t lie!”

Evie throws out her arms. “Obviously, you did, or you’d be joining me in September.”

A ball of dough flies into the living room, smacking the branches of the Christmas tree. “What the hell are you doing, Jay?” Carlos cries.

Another bit of dough slams into the wall beside the fireplace, sliding onto a thatch of holly. “If we can’t eat it, you might as well wear it.”

Mal and Evie whip toward the sound.

The boys tumble into the living room, Carlos tugging at the bowl in Jay’s hands. The dough inside the bowl swishes this way and that. Carlos slams into the couch, and the bowl flies out of Jay’s hands. The dough soars up toward the ceiling, landing with a smack on the ground by Mal’s feet.

Mal stares at the dough. “So this is Christmas.” She jerks her gaze from the dough to the boys to the girl-with-the-power-to-make-her-blood-boil-and-her-heart-sprint. “Our very last together as the Rotten Four, and we’re throwing dough at each other and accusing each other of lies.”

Carlos blushes and stares at his feet.

Jay stares outside at the shivering pines, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

Evie stares at each of her decorations, her mouth puckered into a scowl.

Mal stomps her foot, smashing the dough beneath her boot. “What is going on, you guys?”

Carlos grits his teeth and raises his gaze to meet Mal’s. “For months, Jay’s been stealing touches with me. Until three weeks ago, when he signed onto the kingdom’s tourney league. Now, he won’t even look at me.”

Jay pushes his fists into his pockets, but his gaze remains glued to the trees.

Evie glares at a bunch of holly, where a glob of dough hangs heavy on the leaves. “You know why I’m upset, M. We were supposed to go through college together, and you didn’t even apply.”

Mal swipes the dough from the floor. “Here’s what I know,” she says, balling it in her fists. “Jay, you’ve been walking around with a swagger since you got accepted to the league.”

Jay whips his gaze to Mal, opening his mouth to argue.

Mal holds up her hand. “Don’t. You know it’s true. You’ve barely spoken a word to me and Evie since.”

Jay twists his mouth into a jagged line, and a hint of pink colors his face.

Mal tosses the dough back into the bowl, which spins in a circle on the ground. She stares at its movement. “Evie, I didn’t lie,” she whispers. “I did apply. I just didn’t get in.” The truth burns her throat, a searing brand of shame. “I couldn’t figure out what I wanted to major in, so I left it blank. Colleges like girls who know what they want.”

She cannot look at Evie.

Not even when Evie moves toward her, a soft “M…” drifting like a caress from her lips.

Mal shakes her head. “That’s what I know,” she says. “And honestly, I have no idea how to fix any of this. It’s our last Christmas together, and we’ve fallen apart.” She turns her gaze to the front door, with its promise of ushering in a solitary winter world. “And I really can’t be in this room with any of you right now.”

She steps away from her friends. She steps away from the living room and out the front door. She away steps from the warmth of the fire, leaving it behind for the cold of the winter woods.

The chill blankets her skin and leaves her numb.

~*~

Emotions war through Jay’s blood. He pushes his fisted knuckles into the seams of his jacket and steps to the window.

Mal’s standing outside at the bottom of a snowy hill, staring up at the steel-grey sky. Not even wearing a coat. A bite of guilt gnaws at his gut.

Carlos and Evie are behind him, pinning with the weight of their stares.

They have no idea what to say to me. A sigh drifts up from somewhere deep inside of him. Moment of truth. “You guys ever been afraid?”

Silence stretches between them. He can’t see their faces, but he knows his friends are giving each other looks, trying to figure out how to answer.

He’s never once admitted to being afraid, not even when they fought other gangs on the Isle. The truth hangs heavy in the air.

“Sure,” Evie says, her voice gentle with a hint of warmth. “I’m afraid now, with each of us going in different directions.”

“Exactly.” Jay turns from the window and points at her. “Before now, we knew what the future held. Classes at Auradon. Meals in the kitchens.”

“Games and comfort in our rooms.” Carlos lifts a corner of his lips, offering a half-smile.

The gesture strikes a match of heat in Jay’s chest. “Exactly,” he repeats, his voice softer now. “Everything planned out.”

Evie steps to the window. “Things can’t be that way forever, though.” She raises her hand to the windowpane, cupping the glass with her palm. “We grow up. Do our own thing. Life moves on. So do we.”

Carlos’ half-smile falls, and something hollow echoes through Jay’s heart. Without thought, he reaches for Carlos’ hand.

Carlos jerks his gaze toward Jay, arching a brow.

This time, Jay doesn’t look away. “I’ve been a jerk,” he says. “Too worried about the unknown to focus on the here-and-now.” He tucks their fingers together, the beginnings of wildfire kindled in their touch. “I’m sorry, man.”

Carlos’ smile springs back to life, full and beaming. “’Bout time you admitted it.” He knocks his shoulder against Jay’s arm.

Jay chuckles, then turns his gaze to Evie. “I’m sorry, E. To you and Mal. You’re my friends. I need you in my life.”

Evie spins from the window. “That’s a good thing. Because you’re stuck with us.”

“Swear it?”

Evie nods. “On everything wicked and rotten.”

Jay grins. “Good.” He glances back out at the December forest, where Mal has perched herself on top of a snow-crusted rock, a sketch pad open on her lap. “Someone’s gotta go talk to her.”

“I will,” Evie says.

Jay grabs Mal’s coat off the couch and hands it to Evie. “Tell her I’m sorry.”

“Of course.” Evie takes the coat and steps out of the cabin into the snow.

With a gleam in his eye, Carlos brushes Jay’s jaw with a kiss. “Nicely done,” he whispers.

His words are punctuated by a clinking sound coming from the vents, followed by a blast of heat. Jay blames it entirely for the flame warming his cheeks.

He ducks his head as a goofy grin splits his face. “Whatever.”

~*~

The snow swirls down in drifts of white, nipping at Evie’s cheeks and nose. Her breath comes out in puffs of frost. She bows her head against the cold and warms her hands beneath Mal’s leather jacket, crunching a path toward the hill behind the cabin.

Mal comes into sight, her purple hair a splash of color among so much white.

She sits on a rock beneath a towering pine tree, its branches white with snow. Her hand is a flurry of motion along her sketchpad, her pencil weightless in her fingertips. Her fingers glide upon the page, drawing lines and angles and shapes that match her surroundings.

Her shoulders are hunched, curved in to protect her from the cold. But her lips are tilted upward, her features calm and peaceful.

A hum of warmth radiates through Evie’s chest. Mal-the-Artist has emerged in the forest, a snow nymph with a pencil-in-hand, bringing the winter woods to life in a sketch. How could I have ever thought she’d be happy doing anything but this?

Even in the back-then, when Mal hung more holly around the Clubhouse, it was because she wanted to add to the decorative flair. She wanted to make it count with her own artistic touch.

Evie takes a step toward her best friend, and the snow crunches beneath her boot.

Mal glances up. Her smile teeters. “Hey.”

“Please don’t stop.” Evie’s words push together in a rush. “I like watching you draw.”

Mal’s gaze drifts to her sketch, where a few snowflakes have fallen. She brushes them away with a caress of her hand. “No, it’s okay,” she says, running her fingers along a penciled pine tree. “You were right before. We really should talk.”

“Okay.” Evie crunches a path to Mal. “I have your jacket.” Taking a seat on the frigid rock, which makes her legs ache, she slides Mal’s jacket over Mal’s shoulders. “It’s freezing out here, M. What were you thinking?”

Mal clings to the halves of her coat, tightening it around her body, as Evie’s words fill the space in the silence that follows. Words that mean so many things.

What were you thinking, sitting out here in the cold?

What were you thinking, not telling me you weren’t accepted to college?

What were you thinking, pushing me away when you could have told me the truth?

Evie slides her hand over Mal’s, warming Mal’s frigid fingers beneath her palm. “Did you really think you couldn’t tell me the truth? That I would have liked you any less?”

Mal cringes and closes her eyes. “You were so excited, E. I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

An ache pierces Evie’s heart. She slides her free hand to Mal’s cheek, smoothing her thumb along the crease where Mal’s eyes close. “You could never disappoint me. You’re M and I’m E, and that’s the way it will always be.”

Mal trembles on a breath. “Even if I never go to college?”

Evie’s thumb stills. “Look at me, M.”

Mal blinks her eyes opened, gifting Evie with the sight of a green more vibrant than the forest’s pine trees. “I tried, Evie. I really did. But…”

Evie nods at Mal’s sketchbook. “But you never really wanted college, did you? Or school. You want to spend your life creating art.”

Mal’s gaze drops to her sketchbook. The splendor of the winter forest gazes back, scripted with the strokes of a pencil. “I wanted this,” she whispers, smoothing the sketch beneath her hand. “And,” she says, gazing back up at Evie, “I wanted you.”

Their gazes meet for one frosted breath, then two, as a thrill of electricity sings through Evie’s blood.

She leans forward and touches her lips to Mal’s. “You’ve got me,” she murmurs into the kiss.

A sound half-dragon, half-fae pushes from Mal’s throat, and she cups the back of Evie’s head with her hand, deepening the kiss.

Several sprints of her heart later, Evie leans her forehead against Mal’s. “We’ll figure things out. Together.”

“Promise?”

Evie nods, tapping another kiss onto Mal’s lips. “I do.”

Mal wraps her arms around Evie, hugging her long enough to erase the chill of winter.

Lost in Mal’s touch, Evie almost doesn’t hear the crunch of snow. But it becomes louder, and someone clears their throat.

Mal and Evie glance up from their rock to discover the boys standing there, holding the ropes to two sleds apiece, four altogether.

“It’s Christmas,” Carlos says, gesturing back at the sleds.

Jay tilts his chin toward the hill. “And since there’s a hill, we thought maybe we could celebrate VK style.”

“VK style, huh?” Mal rises from the rock, sliding her sketch pad and pencil into the back pocket of her pants. “Does this mean you’re done being a jerk, Jay?”

Evie bounces to her feet. “I’m supposed to tell you that he’s sorry.”

Mal tilts her head, daring Jay with a flash of her eyes. “Are you?”

“Definitely.” Jay nods. “I was afraid.”

“You?” Mal arches an eyebrow. “Afraid?”

“Yup.” Jay puffs out his chest, as if admitting this truth has made him prouder, somehow. “And you know what? I really don’t have to be. I’ve got you guys.”

Mal’s features soften, the artist within transforming the rough angles of her expression into softer lines. “Of course you do. We’ve got each other.”

“Yeah, we do.” Carlos holds out his free hand, making a fist. “To staying together.”

Evie joins her fist with Carlos. “To staying friends.”

Jay adds his fist. “To forever and all that counts.”

Mal studies their hands, narrowing her eyes as if thinking about it.

“C’mon, M.” Evie bumps Mal’s hip with her own. “VKs forever?”

Mal rolls her eyes. “You guys drive me crazy.” She moves her hand into the circle. “But okay. Friends again. Friends forever. You know, and all that counts.” Her lips twist into a smile. “Because we’re rotten…”

“…to the core,” the trio finishes.

The Rotten Four bump fists, sealing forever with a chorus of cheers.

~*~

The stars fan out across the sky, one of them shining brighter than all the rest, as Mal takes to the top of the hill with her friends. Together, they slide into their sleds. Mal slides her hand into Evie’s. Carlos slides his hand into Jay’s. They exchange gazes, and then they release a collective whoop and slide down the hill in the Christmas snow.

“VKs forever!” Jay shouts.

“Friends forever!” Carlos echoes.

“To making it count!” Evie cries.

A feeling of weightlessness soars through Mal’s stomach. She has no idea what the future holds for any of them. Carlos hasn’t even gotten his college letters yet, and she and Evie have to decide on living arrangements. But for tonight, as the stars shine bright within the sky, they have each other. And really, that’s enough.

[theurbansquared]

Guide To Avoiding A Loser Brokerage

by James Hill | theurbansquared

Brokers can be bastards and some even get better at it while other brokers are legitimate life-changing business Sherpas

A broker is supposed to guide you through a career in real estate much like a coach or pimp - offering protection and how to understand a complicated system better and direct it to revenue  without getting your neck broke while playing the game. I created and ran the most well-reviewed, largest full-service brokerage in the fastest-growing city in America.  This gave me access to nearly ever broker and their broker's pay structure and innovations. I also got the agent's version of my same broker buddies brokerages when they eventually joined my brokerage; hovering anywhere from 20–60 agents. Trending insider chatter has blame going to real estate brokers of decades past (and current) and how they’ve managed their agents - - letting unsupervised  agents with no experience run wild on the streets practicing on the public wearing out Realtor love and making a need for all the Mountain Dew-made Zillow-y options that currently exist.

Brokers are out of touch more than ever with today’s current media load, having to understand and use social media platforms for their advertising (since the private Town & Country affair that real estate once was is forever over and the landscape is a bit more like a half Juggalo, half programmer flea market).

Let’s dive into some situations and tenets that most agents don’t consider when choosing a brokerage.

Sales Volume

This is a bit of negotiating psychology and due diligence. Simply ask how much sales they (the brokerage) did last year and how much they’re currently at. If they don’t know these numbers they’re goons. If they don’t give it, you guessed it - they’re hiding something; their lack of revenue. I’ve hired and fired hundreds of agents and in interviews so few ask this question but it’s one of the most important questions you can ask as an agent and you need the information. An agent that doesn’t ask this has already given a tell that they’re not a top producer since they’re not interested in the production capacity of the team they may join. No bueno. Creep the brokerage as well obvi -- reviews, FB & IG engagement and current running ads, and make sure the company Christmas Party isn’t catered by Chic-fil-a at a Burnet Road dive bar.

Office

40% of your learning and 350% of your work will be done at the office. Those numbers will make sense 90% of the time after a few years in real estate. The rest should be on the streets - your car, properties, driving 75 mph talking and sending out docs, gorging on breath mints. Office, home, tiny homes, motorhomes have all blended into one larger conversation where work/live ethos are all in re-definition.

But, when you do need a more savvy moment in any market when people talk about borrowing or selling something that’s over $100K they don’t want to hear some bullshit too loud pedantic conversation seated right next to them at Starbucks or the local kooky coffee shop. In real estate Murphy’s Law is always in effect. The super important listing sign off that has to go well and they want to hear you pitch again before deciding? There will be someone (at this super ‘caj’ coffee house meeting) there projectile vomiting, or throwing cats, or something else tiresome or bad that takes more calls.

Speech and body language are massive parts of sales so when the entire set is thrown because a barista is running through a whole Sublime album. You want the most inviting cool office you can ever pull off at any given moment in real estate . Was that ever a question? There's a balance  -- you can't afford that year one or three, but it’s called real estate for a reason. Sexy, exciting buildings is what the brochure said when I joined. Also, it’s about style not size.

If you haven’t lost business to coffee house back pressure you really haven’t failed at agency properly.

Social IQ

Social reach is the only conversation now. Many brokerages won’t make it as the lead generating aspects of the industry aren't powered by a private MLS anyone and the publicly-hated ‘Realtor’ designation have both brokers and agents guessing about tomorrow. Calendars, best practices and free shitty tips & templates are the du jour of the day for anyone trying to get an agent's eyes. You can Google and get all the ‘basic’ social media dance steps, but with everyone at the same happy hunting spot, you’re being covered up, which leaves all your new artistic efforts fruitless and also squandering winning time.

Traffic, leads and engagement are all separate areas that have to be fulfilled properly and even this is in flux with historic corporations and current start ups all on the same advertising playing field. Social reach and engagement is about going to the consumer direct and becoming their friend with soft bribes -- free food, gifts, prizes (trips, events tickets) or industry work tools. The great news is, real estate has always been mostly consumer direct - start up a convoy at the grocery store (bar, church, meetup) and you’re in the car that weekend looking for houses with a new client. While you, your brokerage and the world are figuring out their exact social media mix, you need to make sure a brokerage isn’t lost on social media since many won’t be able to stay in business in the next few short years. Your brokerage needs to have a plan and and at best some presence on social media. Plus, they should be running low-cost performative marketing ad campaigns to get a feel for what and if set user groups are responding to ads. Anyone can post on IG but people engage on IG when they become inspired. A brokerage should have some sort of inspiration and relationship tied in with the local allure of their city --  or heading that direction.

Mentoring

Much like a neurotic buyer chasing an interest rate for their home mortgage (and then never buying a house) agents too focused on commission may miss the essential career need for mentoring -- for their clients and career. I had a 5 deal minimum for my new agents before they were ever unsupervised and received more commission. I've had new agents with celeb clients in hand and celeb agents with no clients in hand. No one wants to do business with someone with absolutely has no, experience but they do it because they like you as a friend or fam. Your mentor is the person riding shotgun with you at the beginning of your career. On many levels you want to be this person since they embody the position and role. You're literally and figuratively are borrowing experience from them and they deserve to be paid for it. You always have to strengthen your brand outside of your brokerage but if you don’t have any experience your brand doesn’t have ‘strength’ you simply have a logo and a drag & drop website where you're possibly talking about yourself and love of unicorns or football shit but the big boat deals you dream about in bed aren’t gotten this way. Remember, no unicorn could ever throw a football good without a lot of practice and a good mentor.

Support

Support in a brokerage is really communication and solutions for small problems, and systems for managing bigger ones with people. Most of the annoying things in real estate happen outside of the deal - contracts, calls, emails, docs, signatures, more docs. You typically want a super admin, broker, or agent manager that you can call and they pick up the phone. It’s pretty simple. With a mentor, admin, or broker you’re going to have a n 8:30 PM question or deal that’s going down. You’ll need printer help. Real estate always happens now (this was one of the main mantras in my office). Printing, prequal, weekend support and constant post dinner shenanigans.

Training

Meet Frank Miller, David Mamet, the Sex Pistols, Tony Robbins, Wayne Dyer, Hendrix, Tom Hopkins, The World’s Greatest Detective and Conan The Barbarian. We had a lot of different inspirations for the style and ethos of our urban brokerage. The World’s Greatest Detective is Batman. It was a moniker that became popular in the seventies. We used this example about how important due diligence and proper Fact Finding techniques are for serving and closing deals for clients. (It’s almost essential to be inquisitive in real estate esp about property/development to have success). Training is largely your sales meeting(s). Although I don’t come from a car background I’ve mentored many car guys transferring to real estate (they typically are out of the industry within 2 years and are there only for boom markets). Car guys have meetings every morning 6 days a week and they’re not at 9 or 10 am. They’re already working.

free module: The Burger King Phenomena: Why Agents Do Less Working For Themselves Than If They Were Working At Burger King

Many brokerages have no training/meeting schedule (monthly doesn’t count -- that’s a meet and greet company pump and catch up meeting). If a brokerage doesn’t have training on a schedule then there is no training. You’ll possibly be thrown a 3-ring binder, or given some PDF’s, or links to old bizarre training videos or a soup sandwich of all three and sometimes even a bill for the training. An agent’s training/meetings and their attendance to them are the difference between an agent making it or not when you’re 24 months or less in the role as an agent especially in the fast turbulent waters of the current 2021 market where brokerage and agent purpose and pay are under attack. From my experience, new agents that hide die.

Media

Having a background as a creative director I’m aware with great detail of agency and brokerage media needs, the cost and time they extract, and the corresponding revenue they’re projected to bring back. Brokerages are looking for their purpose now as simply having a brokerage doesn’t bring in leads like it used to. This is fitting, since the digital dumbass brokers that that didn’t understand the importance of ‘the web’ rickshawed our MLS data and sold the agent/broker centric real estate system for their benefit while current agents are left with an empty greasy enough to-go box to curl up with. Brokerages were never media houses or ad agencies but now that consumer level graphic programs and website builders are ubiquitous and any agent after being licensed for 10 days can drag & drop a website up in 4 hours and make it look like a brokerage that’s been around for years. I know I’m going wide on the subject here but stay with me because this is the crux of where the industry and consumer are renegotiating roles.

A brokerage’s value proposition has changed drastically with the telecommute revolution that was only sped and strengthened by Covid. Also, generational knowledge base gaps in technology are more apparent than ever with technology as younger agents can often be more media savvy than their broker. The market is flooded with self appointed companies or gurus that are taking on the role of the classic ad agency (Mad Men) or media production house. Also beware of real estate coaches with little or no real estate experience offering to guide you in social media. Okay media can’t be used in apex situations (such as the luxury listings you’re after) and doesn’t draw apex listings. Beware of tapioca room temperature tips and general lists from companies that can appear informative but are really boilerplate low grade data to get your attention to ultimately upsell you on a paid service.

As an agent or a brokerage, consumer level graphic and website building programs can be a death ticket to your business as your competitors have the same tools and are cranking out the same type of style of messaging you are now. Now agents, principals, admins and in art class creating flyers. This has been done since the nineties as the valleys of dead agent careers is full of 2-day Microsoft Word (or any of their shitty office offerings) seshes to produce nasty flyers and presentations. These programs are fun and making bad flyers absolutely work related - the kind of work you don’t want’ related to your business because it’s adult crayon coloring. Activity does not equal production. Staying busy doing the wrong things doesn’t make money in real estate. Rather than spending agent winning time staying in the wrong lanes for way too long, get with a team or brokerage that are providing the most exceptional visual media you can find in your market. It used to be cool 2 years ago, now it’s the only thing that matters. Visual content.

free module: Better Agent Media, Less Agent Money (media tips and hacks).

Access

This is access to your broker. Brokers with families are typically less available. Your best bet as an agent is looking for a grinder broker who sleeps on the couch at their office. This person doesn’t have kids to build into so they’ll build into your career and you’ll get the most out of these brokers. Beware of cheesedick, apathetic, rich boy, bored brokers not around and more concerned with projects like a shitty vanity wine brand that their wife’s forced them to launch since she’s not living her best life anymore as an agent.

Style

What kind of style is your brokerage? Is there an opportunity to bring more style sophistication to the market -- standout in a smaller market? Or, are you in an ultra stylish market currently and butt hurt because you already have a little story about how you’re going to keep it real and be a Dockers wearing slob for eternity? The thing about style in agency is you always need to look like you can list a million dollar house. Oh, is it really that simple? Yes it is. You complicated it. Clients always care about their housing a little bit more than they care about your real estate career. They don’t have time to figure out why you’re wearing shoe styles from 7 years ago. Don’t make it hard for people to do business with you. If you’re ugly, even better. It can be a massive advantage. Everyone on the planet loves when someone who doesn’t fall into our general current ‘attractive’ spectrum doesn’t give af, looks great and puts themselves together in a stylish way that the viewer can understand (can I get away with Teen Wolf?). A great side benefit from this step in the right direction is it’s a great way to make someone who is conventionally attractive insecure.

You want to be in the same style as the people in your area but the secret is you need to lead that style pack if you can -- you always lead and dress apex. Years ago this was anecdotal but after over 100K hours in real estate a good suite (tailored) saved my ass and literally got me business. I listed the largest house in east Austin because of a suit (and got a front page story on the newspaper real estate section for free because the owner saw me walking into the next door neighbor’s house).

Offices, dress, logo, email signature are all elements of you and your brokerage’s style. Style in and of itself isn’t enough to be a top producer in real estate. I’ve had stylish and even celebrity agents that didn't do zilch, but style often is a fingerprint to something more.

Picking the right elements for your agent style is an art because you have to offer something from yourself that’s unique enough as well as something familiar (a bridge to your uniqueness). I have a background as a musician and also as a merchant sailor. Fortunately those are easy convo starters. You could be a philatelist and have some challenges, but regardless it absolutely will take a year or three to develop your own angle and style towards the market as you learn it and the agent role more.

Things that look attractive and familiar puts client’s psychologies at ease. So, if skinny jeans are in you better get in them (that’s like five years old now). You’re on stage. You don’t wear what the worker people behind the camera wear. If you want to wear boring shit get on the other side of the camera. If you want less leads saddle up to a forgettable brokerage. People have hard days. They want you to put an effort into your real estate agency role. Currently it’s a fried role so you’re dealing with that too. People love to be smiled at and sold and especially from someone who smells good. It doesn't ever get old. Don’t make them beg for your charm. Be a nice charming person with a shirt that fits good, it’s a powerful combo.

Get My Damn Paper

If you’ve never seen a werewolf in daylight mess with an agent’s commission after the deal’s done and funded. Admin? Who is the damn person who does the admin? (accounts payable is the icey pro word if you like). That person that you contact to get your commission check cut? If that person is a weirdo, or there’s an unfriendly or sketchy quality to the office or admin staff, do not go forward (don’t confuse this with new people or industry jitters). Grab some free coffee, leave the smarm and jet to the next brokerage blind date.

Software

CRM is an annoying conversation. Here’s the things with CRM’s - for all the work CRMs curtail, because of their complexity and existence and the work(time) they take to interact with you need to consider how much work you’re putting into operating the CRM software verses how much time it’s saving. Many times brokerages have expensive yearly subscriptions with per agent fees for their CRM which can make the brokerage have a zealot meth thing for the ‘team’ software and promise you can’t have a career without taking a bump too. To understand CRM better before it was a name, Client Relationship Management is what analog Proximity became. Let me explain -  being close to people in Church, bar, school, same building -- all give proximity. This becomes familiarity, then ease, then trust. People do business with people they trust & like. Once people disconnected physically and started using other means more contact attempts have to be made to work for or ‘prove’ worth.

Follow Up is a large component of most CRM’s and there are gobs of money for agents who follow up meticulously. Simply ask the broker what CRM they use and research it. Something to remember - unless you’re extremely busy with your career you don’t need a CRM. You can manage & database your clients & leads ‘by hand’ and strap it to the cloud with G-Suite/Google Sheets.

Brokerage Name

A small but important aside, if a brokerage have named themselves after a precious metal or a gem, or if it says elite in the name then it’s not elite. If it has the words prestige or worldwide or international it may not be any of those either. I know a handful of exceptions to this rule but this is a great dirty primer to use when choosing a brokerage that’s going to propel your career and have shrimp options at the Christmas Party.

[funkylittlebard]

The Right Inspiration

A N O T H E R

and this time it's bards bc why tf not they're pretty together

Here on Ao3

Rating: Teen

No CWs, but some tags: Painting, Fluff, Established Relationship, Bards, Artist Dandelion, AU - Modern Setting

Jaskier/ Dandelion being pretty below

Dandelion sighed, dropping his pencil onto his desk with a clatter. He folded his arms, frowning petulantly across the room at Jaskier. His boyfriend was lounging on their sofa, arms crossed behind his head in a way that made his biceps bulge. He was smirking at Dandelion, definitely aware of the effect he was having on the other man.

“It’s impossible, Jaskier!” Dandelion cried, pouting a little more. He shook his head, sending his blond curls flying over his shoulders and into his face. “I can’t get the shapes right!”

Jaskier giggled. “You’re so dramatic, Dandy. You’ve said that three times already.” As he spoke, he flexed his arm muscles, and Dandelion found that he couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight of them.

“Bastard,” he muttered, reaching for his pencil again. Jaskier fluttered his eyelashes, blue eyes sparkling with mirth.

“See, you just needed the right inspiration,” Jaskier said and shifted in place again. Dandelion stared at him as he moved, noticing the way that the sunlight danced over the other man’s face, making the highlight he had applied that morning shimmer in the rays peeking through their blinds.

Dandelion’s jaw dropped. The makeup was a soft shade of pink and when caught in the sunlight, it looked more like glitter sprinkled across Jaskier’s cheeks. Dandelion caught his lip between his teeth, the pencil held tightly in his hand now completely forgotten. Jaskier shifted again and his lips parted with a quiet contented sigh. Dandelion couldn’t decide where to look- the blissful expression on the man’s face, his strong arms, his long, slender legs...

“Dandy.”

Dandelion startled, blinking rapidly, and turned back to his sketchbook, willing his blush to fade.

“What?” he asked as he finally turned back to his sketch and began to draw in some lines. The pencil glided across the page as he blocked out the general shape of his boyfriend’s pose. He looked up again, to check the form his drawing was taking, and found Jaskier gazing at him fondly.

“You’re adorable when you’re focussed, darling. Scrunched up little nose, I just want to kiss it,” Jaskier said.

Dandelion could feel his blush returning at full force. He stood up, abandoning his art for the moment. He ambled over to the sofa and leant down to press a gentle kiss to Jaskier’s lips, before sitting back on his heels.

“I know I said to wear something nice, but you’ve really outdone yourself, my dear,” Dandelion said as he pulled Jaskier’s hand into his, rubbing the knuckles gently. Dandelion lifted Jaskier’s hand and kissed it. Jaskier smiled at him, and the grin was astonishingly pretty. Dandelion felt his heart stutter out of pace in his chest and he squeezed Jaskier’s hand tightly.

Leaning in to press another kiss to his boyfriend’s shimmering cheeks, Dandelion stood up and picked his sketchbook back up.

For the better part of the next hour, Dandelion sketched, erased, and re-sketched the same section of his artwork, interspersed with increasingly irritated sighs, he found himself trapped in a cycle- sketch a part of Jaskier’s face, look up to check his progress, become distracted admiring Jaskier, then look down, discover he had ruined the shape in his distraction, and repeat. Simply put, staring at Jaskier’s pretty little face was proving incredibly distracting from his goal of drawing said pretty little face.

He groaned and dropped his pencil, putting his head in his hands. If he couldn’t even finish the sketch, how on earth was he going to manage when he had to pick out the exact shade of blue for Jaskier’s eyes? He just wanted this piece to be perfect.

He pressed his palms into his eyes, willing himself not to cry. This was meant to be fun, not stressful, he reminded himself. He took a deep breath and looked back down at his page. Overall, the sketch wasn’t bad, maybe lacking in a few of the finer details, but he could work with this, he could, he reminded himself forcibly.

When he next looked up at him it was impossible to miss the concern in Jaskier’s eyes. He tried to smile at his boyfriend, a shaky little grin being the best he could manage. Jaskier’s frown deepened.

“Dandy? What’s up?” He made as if to stand up, and Dandelion leapt to his feet, eyes wide and frantic, waving his hands around in front of him.

“No, no, sit back down right now, Jask!” Jaskier sat down, head tilted to the side and eyes narrowed slightly in confusion as he settled back into his spot. “I’m fine, just need to…” he panicked, trying to come up with an excuse- “pick the right shade of blue for your eyes!” He turned his back on Jaskier and began rifling through his box of paints. Jaskier chuckled, and Dandelion could hear his earrings jingling as he shook his head. Dandelion let out a triumphant cry and his hand shot up into the air with a tube of cornflower blue paint. “There,” he said, with a smug little smile, “found it.”

The rest of his sketch went quite quickly after that and soon Dandelion was uncapping a selection of paints, squeezing out little blobs onto his palette. Finally, he eked out a little of the cornflower blue, smiling softly to himself as he did so.

Carefully, he dipped his brush into the water, and glanced up at Jaskier. Water dripped onto the table as he stared, mouth open, at the man on the sofa. Sometime between Dandelion choosing his paints and now, Jaskier had fallen asleep. He looked practically angelic. Dandelion couldn’t bring himself to move in case he broke the spell.

Before he managed to break free from the moment, Jaskier snored loudly and woke himself with a jolt, clutching at the sofa. Dandelion couldn’t help but chuckle as Jaskier pouted at him.

“You could’ve woken me up, you know,” Jaskier said as a faint flush rose in his cheeks. Dandelion shook his head.

“You looked so peaceful, Jask. Wouldn’t disturb you for the world,” Jaskier smiled at him with glistening eyes for a second before snorting.

“Dandy, you’d sell my soul for one corn chip.”

It was silent for a second, and then they burst out laughing. Wiping tears from his eyes as he finally got his breathing back under control, Dandelion submerged his brush in the water.

“Right,” he said, “this time I really am going to paint you. No more getting distracted!” Jaskier just rolled his eyes at him, as Dandelion dipped the tip of the brush into the pale blue paint. Where better to start than the part of the painting that had caused him the most distraction?

[rennyforpresident]

Renny’s BBSim: First Boots Week 12

Welcome back to Biiiiiiiiig Brother!

@ashleaevans @bathroom-sand @kaysarswhore @kayysarridha @kelleekim @lahallucinations @maxdoesbb @misshoh @music-obsessednerd @nerdphobic @nomwastaken @pawn2393 @phylisisley @remember-caltoru @rennyforpresident @shaolinbynature​

Previously, the house target (and the house target since like week 3) @kaysarswhore finally got the boot. Now that the obvious target is out, how will the final 4 cope?

Now that the glue for all the alliances, @kaysarswhore, is gone, there are no alliances left. There are still two former Block Destroyers in the house, and @shaolinbynature has managed to slip to the final 4 after her showmance partner was voted out.

The HOH competition has never been more critical.

@lahallucinations: “The worst move I made was…

A. Throwing competitions the first week

B. Sending @rennyforpresident home on my HOH”

The correct answer is B, and everyone gets a point! (no I’m not bitter why do u ask)

@remember-caltoru: “My biggest regret in the game is…

A. Not winning an HOH

B. Not turning on my alliance”

The correct answer is B again, and @shaolinbynature is the only one to get it correct

@nomwastaken: “My favorite moment in the house was…

A. Seeing @misshoh throw the pizza rolls

B. Watching @kaysarswhore burn down the kitchen”

The correct answer was A, and @pawn2393 was the only one to get it wrong, meaning the other two each got one point. The score is currently 3-2-1 in favor of @shaolinbynature.

@nerdphobic: “The worst moment for me in the BB house was…

A. Breaking the hammock and being mocked for it

B. Getting evicted”

The correct answer was B, and @misshoh was the only one to get it right. The @shaolinbynature and @misshoh are now tied for first, with @pawn2393 in last with one point.

@phylisisley: “If I could change one thing about my game, it would be…

A. not using the veto on @kaysarswhore

B. winning an HOH for myself”

The correct answer is A, and everyone gets it right. 

@kelleekim: “One thing I’ll never forget about the BB house is…

A. All of the fighting!

B. @nerdphobic breaking the hammock!”

The correct answer is B, and everyone gets it right again.

With only one question left, @pawn2393, it is impossible for you to catch up.

Final question. @kaysarswhore: “The best move I made in the house was…

A. convincing @phylisisley to use the veto on me

B. Winning 3 HOHs and 2 Veto competitions to secure my safety”

@shaolinbynature answers A. @misshoh answers B. The winner of this weeks HOH competition is…

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@shaolinbynature! You have secured your safety for the week, and earned the right to nominate two of your fellow houseguests for eviction! And I’m pretty sure 5 HOHs in the same season is definitely a BB record!

@shaolinbynature in the DR: “I just need to win one more HOH next week, and the money is mine. I’m confident I can sweep a jury vote, I just need to make it there! The question is, who do I have the best shot of winning against?”

At the nomination ceremony, @shaolinbynature stands and makes her decision.

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@shaolinbynature: “I have decided to nominate you, @misshoh and you @ashleaevans. My logic is simple here. @misshoh, we’ve never been on the same side of this house, and you’ve consistently gunned to get me out. I don’t want to go to the end with someone like that. @ashleaevans, we have been on the same side of the house, but you’re the bigger threat out of you and @pawn2393. It’s clear y’all will take each other, so it doesn’t make sense for me to risk my spot in final 2 with you. This nomination ceremony is adjourned.”

@misshoh in the DR: “I need to win this veto. Period. @pawn2393 will NOT have my back, and @ashleaevans will stay if noms stay the same. This is not the end of the road for me, mark my words.

@ashleaevans in the DR: “Noms don’t really matter, because everything is decided by the veto. As long as myself or @pawn2393 wins it, I’m good! I have my eyes on the prize, and that prize is half a million dollars baby.

@pawn2393 in the DR: “I have a big decision to make. If noms stay the same, do I stay loyal, or vote out the bigger threat? I don’t know what the right move is…”

This one is for all the marbles! The final veto of the summer gives the winner the chance to decide the final nominees, and decide who will cast the sole vote to evict. Everyone out here wants it, but only one person will walk away with the necklace.

The competition lasts for 25 minutes, and after a tense battle, one houseguest emerges victorious. 

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@pawn2393! You have won the FINAL Power of Veto of the summer!

@pawn2393: “My first comp win could NOT have come at a better time! I secured this guy, now I just need to make sure I make the right choice going forward.”

@pawn2393 has no choice but to not use the veto, and the nominees automatically stay the same.

Before eviction though, the houseguests are left to their own devices.

@ashleaevans and @pawn2393 are talking in the bedroom about the decision this week

@ashleaevans: “When we’re in final 3, we just have to take each other! This is best case scenario!”

@pawn2393: “I know! I just have to tip toe around @misshoh all week, I hope she takes the vote well.”

@pawn2393 in the DR: “I know that I’m telling him that I’m keeping him, but I’m not sure yet. @misshoh might be easier to beat in the end, and everybody knows I need someone that’s easy to beat.”

While these two are talking, @misshoh and @shaolinbynature are in the HOH room talking. 

@misshoh: “Those two are downstairs hamming it up, and you’re gonna get screwed in this final HOH. I hope you know that.”

@shaolinbynature: “I cannot beLIEVE that @pawn2393 won that. I should have taken it home, I can’t believe I fucked up at this point. If I lose this final HOH, what was even the point of all of this. Why did I even come back again?”

@shaolinbynature makes a lot of threats, but @misshoh convinces her that she’s not finished yet. Both of them need to campaign to keep @misshoh here, so @pawn2393 is their next target of conversation.

The morning of the eviction, @misshoh pulls @pawn2393 into the storage room.

@misshoh: “Listen, you know that if you keep him he’s winning this whole thing. You’re screwed unless you keep me, you know that, right?”

@pawn2393: “I just need to reason out if that’s true. The only jury vote I’d get would be from @ashleaevans if I’m up against you, and I don’t want to screw that up by betraying him.”

@misshoh: “You need to play with balls! This is the move that will let you gain the jury’s respect! Make it now!”

The time to evict has come!

(sorry for the shitty microsoft paint photoshop i am artistically talentless adsfkjh)

Arisa: “Hello houseguests! Let me introduce you to Julie Chen! We’ve made up, settled our differences, and now we’re doing this eviction together!”

Julie: “Yes! I’ve learned the error of my ways, and I’m excited to be back! Now, let’s hear those last minute pleas from our nominees!”

@misshoh: “My argument is this. @ashleaevans is not only the bigger competitive threat here, but the bigger social threat. If you are sitting next to him in the final 2, you will lose. The jury will vote for him. I’m not saying they won’t vote for me, but you have a better shot against me than him. Please, make this  move, and let’s start playing Big Brother.”

@ashleaevans: “ @pawn2393, you know I have had your back since the beginning. You’re my best friend in here, and there’s no way I’d ever betray you. I know you have my back, and I have full faith in you. That’s all.”

Arisa: “Whenever you’re ready, @pawn2393, please stand and cast your vote to evict.”

@pawn2393: “This decision was one that I did not take lightly, and I want both of you to know that I respect the hell out of you. But, I have to do what’s right in the game and in my heart. That being said…

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Julie: “Come on out @misshoh​!”

Julie: “It’s good to see you, but I’m sure you didn’t want to see us! How was your time in the BB house?”

@misshoh​: “Honestly, this time was 10 times crazier than last time, but I still loved it that much more. I had a great time playing, even if I was a comp flop and a robbed 4th place queen!”

Arisa: “That you are! Why do you think @pawn2393​ chose to evict you over @ashleaevans​?”

@misshoh​: “My bet is just because they’re so close. There’s no reason for @pawn2393​ to sit in the end with @ashleaevans​ other than the fact that they’re BFFs. It’s personal and not BB, and I don’t think he made the right move.”

Julie: “Well we’ll see what the right move was when we see you tomorrow, where we crown the winner of Renny’s BBSim: First Boots.”

Arisa: “The finale is next! Who will be our supreme? Find out tomorrow. For now, from outside the Big Brother house, I’m Arisa Cox.”

Julie: “And I’m Julie Chen.”

Together: “And remember, someone is aaaaaaaaalways watching!”

@misshoh​! Fills the role of the 4th place robbed queen and we will MISS YOU!

But finale night is tomorrow!!! I haven’t looked at the results so idk who wins this but goddamn if this wasn’t a season for the books

[oyesmendes]

regrets and goodbye - luke hemmings

a/n: hello i am going to break your heart!!!! mini swearing and alot of sad angsty moments ahead. love yall!

Luke downs his first glass of tequila like its water. It doesn’t burn, just slides down his throat and he feels it course through his veins. So when the phone on the table rings and her name pops up on the screen, he thinks he’s drunk. Just like all the other drunken nights with him hallucinating her smile, her body next to him. He doesn’t pick up, just staring at it until it stops ringing and he’s left with the silence in his home. He lets another glass of the liquid slide down his throat, this time burning it along with a memory that burns a hole in his heart.  

-

Amber was pacing, a habit of hers whenever she felt stuck or frustrated, and it helped her get out of her own head. This time though, she wasn’t sure it was doing its trick. The dressing room was quiet for the first time after a show, only the low hum of the air conditioning could be heard. He could see her frustration, the way the little soldiers in her mind was working to help her find the right words. He could see the rage and sadness on her like the open book she was. Her lips part then press together before she looks straight up at him, the light in her eyes no longer there.

“I was just your half time entertainment wasn’t I? Not even worthy enough to be a trophy you can put on your shelf.” Disappointment. Sadness.

“I didn’t say that, Amber-“

“You didn’t have to say it. I should’ve known from the way you treated me.”

“From the way I treated you? I put you up on a fucking pedestal, Amber! You were more than a trophy.” Was he being serious right now? A fucking pedestal? Fire burned in Amber’s chest and she finally snapped.

“Then tell me why the fuck was your tongue in Kayla’s mouth last night. Tell me why the fuck did you take her back to your hotel room?” Anger. Pure rage. Luke froze in place, his eyes widening when he realises that she knows. She didn't want to call him out, but when he pulls her aside and tells her they were over on the last night of the North American leg of the tour, her mouth runs before her brain could stop it.

“Yeah, I knew. Saw her crawling out your room this morning, don’t tell me she was there to help you pick out an outfit for the radio show at 4AM. I’m not a fool.” He doesn’t say a word, just hangs his head low and sighs. Amber scoffs.

“You should’ve just told me, Luke. The truth is always better than a lie.”

-

He wanted to say he was sorry, tell her he didn’t mean it. That he was so stupid for choosing this route to break up with her. He never did anything with Kayla that night, she just listened to him talk her ear off about Amber and then told her to leave. Luke loved every part about Amber. The way she’d smile at him when she spots him staring at her during soundcheck, how she concealed her squeals when he tickles her side while passing her in the hallways. The way she would heed to all his requests about keeping it low-key, so much so that only the boys knew about her. she was his everything, and he would never compare her to a trophy. To him, she was a fucking goddess - the most magical woman he has ever seen. She was a goddamn dream that he never wanted to wake up from.

But he had to. Throughout the whole 6 months of sneaking around, Luke couldn’t give her what she gave him. After his previous relationship, everything in him was drained. He couldn’t give back and he found himself just taking whatever she gave him. He didn’t give himself time to heal from the past, just dove all in, battered and wounded by his ex. Amber didn’t mind though, she loved Luke for who he was. Yes, she was hurt that they couldn’t even stay in the same hotel room for a night, tired of hiding their relationship in front of the tour crew. But to her, Luke was worth it, even in his darkest hour, he was enough for her. Until he wasn’t.

The moment he decided to let her down in the most hurtful way possible, Luke lost it all. He managed to put out that seemingly permanent flame that burned in her chest, and darkness collapsed all around them.

His phone rings again, and he doesn’t answer, doesn’t bother to look. The caller leaves a voicemail this time, which Luke decides to listen to after another glass of tequila and his breath hitches at the sound of a sweet voice.

“Hey Lu,”

Amber.

She laughs dryly, and he can hear the sound of her fingers tapping against a surface.

“I don’t know why I’m doing this, I think I just wanted to hear your voice. But I guess you don’t.”

I do. I fucking do. He whispers under his breath.

He hears shuffling again and he imagines her on the couch, trying to find a good spot. Luke thinks she’s going to hang up but she doesn’t. He hears Amber take in a deep breath and it felt as if someone was pushing Luke’s head under water.

“You know, I found myself when I was with you. I thought someone could finally see me, understand who I was and loved every inch of me - the good, the bad and everything in between. I was all in… but I guess you weren’t. I feel so fucking dumb, Luke. You, you made me feel like I was on top of the world when I was actually falling down the tallest building in the world. And now I’ve hit the ground. Hard.”

There was a long pause, only her breathing could be heard.

“I-I love you, Luke. I never found the courage to say it first because I was never sure if you felt the same. Guess it doesn’t matter now. Anyway, I’ve handed in my resignation letter to Paul, I won’t be joining you guys on the next leg of the tour. I’ve recommended a replacement, Alex, he’s a friend from college, a real talent. I think you guys will like him a lot. Goodbye, Lu.”

"No" He gasps, hand clutching the edge of the table. No no no no no.

The line cuts dead and the silence in the room couldn’t be more deafening. He wants to say he loves her, he wants to tell her he needs her. But now she’s leaving, trying to pull herself out of his life for good. Luke scrambles to call her, fingers pressing too hard on the screen. He’s crying now, the phone ringing for way too long before it reaches her voicemail.

“Hey it’s Amber, sorry I can’t get to you right now, but leave a message and I’ll try to call you later! Or maybe I won’t, who knows?” The beep tone goes and Luke opens his mouth to say something but only a loud cry comes out. He ends the call and his hand drops to his lap. It was a few seconds before he feels his phone vibrate in his hand,

Amber: Don’t hurt the next girl, don’t hurt her like you did to us. I love you, Lu. Take care.

-

She takes a good look at the message one last time, her thumb hovering above the send button before firmly pressing down on it.

“You’re really going to do this huh?” Calum asks as he pulls her in for a hug.  

“Took me a while, but I have to.” Amber zips up the last of her suitcases, Calum, Ashton and Michael helping her carry her stuff to the front door.

“You don’t have to, just stay with us on tour. We’re so busy you barely even see us anyway.” Michael argues.

“It’s the risk of seeing him, Mikey. I can’t be tip toeing around you guys when my job involves dressing of you guys and occasionally doing the glitter on your face.” They don’t argue, just helping to load the things in the car quietly.

“We’ll miss you, kiddo. He’ll miss you.” Calum hugs her again after she squeezes Michael tightly.

“You guys take care of him for me okay? And take care of yourselves, I love you guys.” Amber blows a kiss to them before getting into Ashton’s car. He offered to drive her to the airport, since they’ve grown so much closer over their love for yoga and anything to do with the arts. The car ride was initially silent, until Amber plugs in her aux and plays the playlist she created for him. All the songs that described her love for him in one large playlist. ‘Black and White’ by Niall Horan plays in the background, and Amber thinks of the day they were both alone in the tour bus, a rare moment for them two, so it was easily her favourite. She remembers dancing and jumping about in the small space with Luke. She lets herself get lost in those moments, until Ashton’s voice brings her back to reality.

“Hey, I know you gotta go, but all the way to New York? You look like you’re avoiding the plague, Amber.” They both let out a laugh, Amber rolling her eyes playfully at Ashton.

“You know its not intentional, my next job just so happens to need me there. And I’m not staying forever, just a couple of months. You know how I am with winter.”

“Absolute trash.”

They arrive in the carpark of LAX and Ashton helps to unload her luggage. He doesn’t send her off to the gate, lest any of their fans see her with him. He hugs her tightly, rubbing large circles on her back. Amber wills the tears not to fall when it suddenly becomes real for her, she’s leaving. After working all these years with bands and artists in LA, she’s leaving that all behind because of one man. Ashton pulls away, kissing her forehead softly before letting her go.

“Take care of him for me, okay? And take care of yourself too, I know how you are when you go into dad mode.”

“I will, and I’ll make sure I take care of him till we see you again. Then, you can take care of him yourself.”

Amber grins, the tears in her eyes threatening to spill over. She doesn’t know if she will ever see him again, not after all this. The boys she will definitely keep in touch with, they were some of her closest friends. But Luke? She kisses Ashton on his cheek when he squeezes her arm. This was it, she’s saying goodbye and off to a new city to start her new life.

[barefootonfirstsnow]

Heyyy, I just discovered your blog and I wanted to say your photos are truly beautiful and inspiring. Btw I was wondering if you have any advice on how to stay organized. Have a great day🌹❤

Thank you so much for your kind message, you don’t know what a beautiful start to my day this was.

I am by nature quite an unorganised person, or a least have been in my past but I have found many things and ways that work very well for me. Today I can definitely say that I am organised and on top with things most of the time.

How to stay organised and productive 

(as a naturally unorganised person)

Use your mornings.

Waking up with the right mindset and focus is detrimental to productivity and organisation. The first hour spent after my breakfast really sets the tone for the day.

Use and bring a To-Do List

I use my Leuchtturm Calendar as a To-Do List and always always bring it with me everywhere. To get a good nights sleep and rest well, I use my evenings to add tasks to my list that I have to do the next day. This way you make sure you don’t forget important tasks over night and it also keeps you from working too late.

Have a prioritisation system for your to-do list

I use the “ABC-Method”. Tasks that have to be done I mark with an A, Tasks that should be done I mark with a B and Tasks that could be done I mark with a C. You could replace the Letters by doing colour coding, too.

I always start with my A tasks and then do my B and C tasks. The only exception is tasks that will take me less than 5 minutes. These I will do instantly but never more than 3. You know when you just bring a cup to the kitchen and then just answer and email and then just message a friend and then an hour is gone? Don’t do that! Set rules for yourself :)

Choose a maximum for your to-dos

For me it’s something like six tasks but it always depends on how much time I will be having on that day or how big the tasks are

Be very very precise with your tasks

Try not to write “finish essay on aesthetics” but try splitting it up instead. E.g. “search and summarise literature”, “write discussion part”, “send essay to professor”, etc. This way you make sure your workload is clear and you can’t make any excuses :)

Have a clean desk in the morning

Clean    up    your    desk

you really can’t expect yourself to be productive and organised when you wake up to a messy desk. Don’t expect yourself to clean it up in the morning. I know I often won’t do it. If you have enough time and energy even try to put all the things you will need the next day on your desk, ready to start :)

Have a place for everything

As a naturally very untidy person I have had a hard time keeping my flat somewhat clean and neat. Nowadays I would actually consider me as fairly tidy and this is simply due to routines and motivation. For me there was no magic tip or trick to keep my room tidy. One day I wrote down why a certain level of tidiness is important to me and pinned it over my desk. I bought drawers for under my desk and labeled them (uni, work, drawings, random, etc.) I took a picture of what I want my desk to look like and pinned it over my desk. There are many ways to get organised and tidy and I am by no means an expert on that. Try different techniques (maybe KonMari is for you) and see what works for you. Everybody is different. And most importantly: Don’t expect yourself to have a clean room all the time. Nobody has that and it sometimes just isn’t possible.

Have a calendar

I use a paper calendar by Leuchtturm but it really doesn’t matter what you use and how much it is. Tumblr is definitely a dangerous place if you are prone to overbuying. You do not need a fancy calendar, you do not need an expensive calendar app. Just find one that works for you and use it. For me this is a calendar where I see one week per double page and have time stamps for every day. This way I block out time periods for different tasks every day. I colour code my calendar for the categories uni, uni tasks at home (like studying, preparation, …), friends/family/hobbies, important (like going to a doctor), work. Here’s an example week in my calendar from may :)

Most importantly: Don’t be too hard on yourself

Being organised is a nice things but it is not everything. Don’t blame yourself if you’re not much of an organised person. The best artists and authors are often quite chaotic. Being a little unorganised is who you are and it makes you special. As long as it doesn’t get in your way, don’t worry too much. You don’t have to be super organised to do well. I was the most unorganised kid in school and still did very well :)

[zankivich]

The Arrangement: CEO’s Son/Dom!Shawn x Black Sub Reader Chapter 7

a/n: this is like my favorite chapter so far. I feel like I’ve been waiting this whole story to ge tot watch these two interact in this way. I hope it comes across as authentic. I worked really hard on the pacing for this story. You all have been incredibly kind to me lately with feedback for this story and I sincerely hope you keep it coming. It is without a doubt the brightest part of my days recently. Thank you so much for that. K bye. 

WARNINGS: sex without a condom (gotta wrap it before you tap it). mentioned of white supremacy, racism, and micro-aggressions. 

*Shawn’s point of view*

Nothing ever simultaneously works out. It never all gets to be perfect. His life had been a memoir with that exact theme and yet somehow he always let himself forget. Y/n leaves and he somehow has a date with her. A date. Not a hookup. Not some elaborate set up to make her cum. A date. With like conversation and personality. He hadn’t been on a date in years. And sure he knew he was really good at sex, but that didn’t mean shit about being able to actually hold a conversation. She was lightyears above him mentally, and he had no idea how he was going to manage to not fuck it up. But he had a date. She said yes. And that within itself was a win. So of course something in his life was going to have to go to shit. Hold that thought.

Brian makes it back sometime between his gym run and a shower. By the time he gets out, the asshole is sitting on his couch fucking up his kill rate on COD.

“Move over, jerkoff! And switch to two player.” He grunted plopping down on the couch beside him.

“Jeez, bro take it down a couple notches. I am nursing a hangover from the depths of hell over here.”

“Not my fault you can’t ever handle your liquor.”

“Well Melanie seemed to think I handled it just fine.”

“Melanie sounds like she’s still never had an orgasm before.”

Brian punched him in the bicep which only resulted in him returning the favor. Idiot.

“Not all of us sneak our hookups in in the middle of the night.”

He rolled his eyes fingers smashing on the controller.

“I didn’t sneak anyone. It’s my fucking apartment you idiot.”

“Yea, sure, whatever. Did you at least hook up with someone new?”

His fingers stumbled on the joystick, sending his player headfirst into a grenade. Lovely.

“No. No I didn’t.”

Brian looked over at him. “You fucked the same girl again?”

“I don’t think we should be equating Melanie and y/n here. y/n is a woman. A grown ass woman. Trust me, she never lets me forget.” He snorted.

“What is up with you and this chick? You never fuck the same person twice.”

He supposed now was as good a time as any. He actually was going to need shit for brains’ advice.

“I like her okay! I like her. And we hooked up last night but it was...it was different. I didn’t tell her what to do. I didn’t pull out any bells or whistles. I just...We just had sex. And she kissed me like she liked me too. So I asked her on a date.”

“A DATE?! I haven’t seen you go on a date since you were like a child!!”

“No shit, jackass. I’m going to need every fucking ounce of help I can get. And that includes your ass, unfortunately.”

“Stop pretending you don’t love me bitch. Now tell me how you plan to get a thirty year old woman who isn’t on drugs to actually enjoy spending time with your sorry ass.”

What are best friends for?

***

*y/n’s point of view*

y/n: I HAVE A DATE.

y/n: I NEED YOU HERE ASAP

Tiana: Oh shit. K. omw.

The last time you went on a date was in 2016, what some might call the beginning of Armageddon. After a slew of horrid dates, you had been completely and totally ready to throw in the towel. But then this cute guy came out of nowhere. He was nice, sweet, not very funny but in a way that made you laugh. He was also persistent enough to not take no for an answer, without it making you uncomfortable. No immediate red flags. So you went on the damn date. And all was well. It wasn’t an earth shattering date, but you weren’t not enjoying his company. And then it happened.

I just really think Trump will genuinely make America great again ya know?

You nearly choked on a piece of lettuce.

“Really bruh? In front of my salad?”

“No just hear me out though. Is he unorthodox, sure. But Hillary? Hillary and those emails. It just wouldn’t have worked.”

“I absolutely understand what you mean.”

“You do?” He smiled.

“Yep. CHECK PLEASE!”

“Bitch we do not have time for you to disassociate I am trying to make a wing here!” Tiana huffed.

You rolled your eyes and reached for your phone working to still your features so that Tianna could continue with your makeup.

y/n: Are you a republican?

Shawn: Well thank you for asking, I’ve had a lovely day. How was yours?

y/n: I’m serious.

Shawn: I’m Canadian.

“Shit. I’m so stupid.” You whined.

Tiana tugged at your chin. “Not stupid. But NOT still.”

“Sorry, ti.”

y/n: Would you have voted for Trump if you could have?

Shawn: No. No I wouldn’t have. What kind of a person do you think I am?

y/n: Idk. idk. I just needed to be sure. It never came up when you were tying my arms behind my back.

Shawn: You didn’t mention political discourse as one of your kinks. Is there something I should know before tonight?

y/n: No. It’s fine. I swear. Just haven’t been on a date in a really long time. And my last one didn’t go so well.

Shawn: It’s been a long time for me too. But I’d really like to have a go at it, if that’s okay with you?

y/n: yea, I’d like that. Should I meet you at your place still?

Shawn: Actually I’m gonna pick you up. I’ll be at your place at 7?

y/n: Oh. Okay.

“Hmmm.”

“Hmmm what? What’d he say?” Tiana asked.

“I’m not meeting at his place anymore. He’s picking me up.”

“Well where is he taking you?”

“If I knew that, Ti would I be sitting here in a ball of anxiety?!”

Tianna dropped her eyeliner brush and reach instead for the body lava. All hail Rihana.

“I sure hope he dicks you unconscious for a few hours. You have got to relax, sis.” She giggled. “It’s going to be alright, okay? He likes you. You like him. Let that be enough for right now.”

“Okay. Okay. Just...make my titties sparkle? Please?”

“Lord, chile. You don’t pay me enough.” She snorted.

Friendship!

***

Shawn: I’m here. Do you want me to come up?

y/n: No need! Here I come.

Outside your apartment building is one of those SUV hummer situations that you only ever rode in when you were visiting one of your artists on tour. Shawn is standing outside the door of the vehicle, and you can’t help but pause right there in the middle of the sidewalk. He traded the black jeans for a black slack that hones in on the fact that he’s most definitely not wearing a chelsea boot for the first time ever. They’re dress shoes. Like proper, wing tips. And he’s wearing a short sleeve button up with yellow, black, and white stripes. There are enough buttons undone to see the way that his rosary necklace melted into the firmness of his chest nestled amongst the most sinful amount of chest hair. God, where the hell had they made this one at? And how the hell did he wind up at my front door?

“Hi.” He smiled, legs crossed and chest broad. “You look really beautiful.”

You peered down at the jumpsuit you’d picked out with Tiana’s help. It was a really pretty shimmery gold color and the entire back was cut out too. In hindsight, it didn’t seem nearly as impressive as to what he was wearing now.

“Thank you. You look pretty beautiful yourself. Really showed me up tonight.”

He laughed. “Yea, sure. Come on, it’s cold out. Let’s get going.”

In the car, there’s a bottle of champagne and one of the playlists that you recognized from Shawn’s apartment is playing softly in the background. He pours each of you a glass, your legs somehow knotting simply together on the floor of the car. It’s weird in that it’s not like a first date  in the traditional sense. You put his balls in your mouth for one. He licked orgasms out of you like ice cream. But the nerves are still there. You find that you care about what he thinks of you, of how he feels about you. That’s new. And scary.

“So uh...where are we going?” You asked between sips of champagne.

He bites his lip and looks nervously over at you. It’s a new look for him. But one that you find solace in.

“Would you be angry at me if I said it was a surprise?”

You raised an eyebrow. “No. But I would be curious as to what that surprise is.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll know soon enough.”

“I think I heard that line one time. I think Hannibal Lector said it.”

He rolled his eyes and threw his head back and you wished it didn’t make you giggle, but it does.

“Funny.” He smirked hiding behind his glass. “I just wanna impress you a little bit. Is that okay?”

“You wanna impress lil ole me huh?” You smiled. “That’s sweet.”

“Just a little.”

He licked his bottom lip and his hand inched its way up your knee. He was warm. Way too warm to not have your body react a little. Rude.

“Whatever happened to your friend from the other morning? Am I taking you away from him?”

“Oh Brian?” He snickered. “He’s just happy he’s got my place to himself. He couldn’t believe I was going on a date at all.”

“Tiana either.” You snorted.

“Yea? She try and convince you not to go out with me?”

“She is...surprisingly Pro-you for some reason. Must have something to do with me not having enough time to be a bitch as work with our arrangement and everything.”

“Hmmm. Well it’s nice to know I’ve got one person on my team. Maybe by the end of the night I can win you over too.”

“Maybe.” You smiled.

The car eventually rolls to a stop, and you’re not even aware of how long you’ve been talking. All the nerves that you couldn’t actually be together without the sex part sort of faded away. He could make you laugh. He could hold your attention. And you could offer him the same. Just when you were starting to think that it was all going to be fine? Shawn came to open your door.

Your heels touched gently to the ground and you let him pull you from the car. Behind him was not a restaurant. Not a bar. Not even a fucking hotel. Nope. Instead you were stood right in front of Mendes Industries’ private jet and a fucking flight attendant with a bag in her hands that looks surprisngly like your Louis Vitton. Fucking Tiana.

“What the hell. Shawn, what the hell?!” You gasped. “What is this?”

“You were concerned about people seeing us right? Well no one’s gonna see us. No one but the locals.”

“The locals?! I can’t--I can’t just fly away with you Shawn. I have responsibilities. I have a--a job.”

He reached for your hands, which tended to do a lot of movement when you were flustered, and stilled them by placing them on his shoulders.

“Listen to me,” He murmured silencing you. “It’s already set. Tiana canceled all of your meetings for three days. It’s just three days. Look I...I really like you, okay? More so than I know what to do with right now. And I think that you like me too. Do you like me?”

“Y--Yea! Yea, of course I do. That’s not really the point is it?”

“It is. Just get on the plane. Please? I just wanna take you out. Let me take you out.”

You peered up at him, all soft brown eyes and chiseled everything else. He had really come along out of nowhere. It was incredibly disorientating, and intoxicating. You lived your life by a planner, a set time for every hour by the hour. And here he was asking you to throw that all away, to let yourself be something else for a chance. And it wasn’t all that different from what he asked of you in the bedroom. Just let go. Release.

You sighed. “You know when most guys ask to take a girl out? They don’t mean out of the state.”

“I’m not like other guys.” He shrugged.

“No shit. Where are you taking me, white boy?” You groaned letting him steer you towards the plane.

“Try to contain your excitement.” He snorted. “Remember that time we had sex in the back of a storage room during Khalid’s video shoot?”

You smiled awkwardly at the flight attendant and knocked your arm into his shoulder.

“Oh please. We’ve had this jet since I was fifteen. I’m almost positive my dad has done some incredibly sketchy shit on here. Martha knows all. Thank you Martha!”

He leads you to a seat. There’s more champagne. You don’t know how you got here. This man was wild.

“Get to the point, maybe?”

“Right. We hooked up in the storage closet, and you told me that story about how you missed your high school trip to Rome because your mom was having heart problems and couldn’t afford it with the medical bills? You had a Lizzie Mcguire fantasy and everything.”

“I was drunk that night. Khalid had just gotten his first number one.”

“So you don’t want me to take you to Rome?” He asked.

“ROME?!”

“Rome.”

“....Who are you?!”

He chuckled. “I’m just a guy standing here asking a girl to let me take her on a little trip.”

“Oh my god. He quotes romcoms. This is too much.”

“Just relax sweetheart. We’re about to do liftoff.”

Jesus Christ.

***

*Shawn’s point of view*

He’s a little worried that he may have broken her. Maybe it was too much too fast. He should’ve just taken her to fucking dinner like a normal person. The problem was he wasn’t normal. And she sure as hell wasn’t normal either. She was so different from anyone he’d ever been with before. He wanted to spend time with her. And the last thing in the world he wanted was her to think about his dad while she was with him. He could tell that it bothered her more than she was willing to admit, and he just needed them to be on equal footing. What said equal footing like going to a country where neither of them spoke the language. Tiana had given him the green light when she agreed to change y/n’s schedule around and even pack her a bag. It seemed like maybe it might go well.

She calms down after her first glass of champagne, and sits more comfortably into the seat next to him, her legs folded so that her knees poked gently at his thigh. She was closer, close enough for him to smell her perfume and he kind of loved it.

“So are first dates the one’s where we spill all of our dirty laundry, or is that the second one?” She asked.

He chuckled and laid his hand on her thigh. She smiles at him, so he doesn’t pull away.

“Your guess is as good as mine. Do your worst, woman.”

She situates herself a little more gently into the chair, chin propped up on her palm. He gets lost in the glitter on her collarbones and neck.

“Why haven’t you been on a date in a long time?” She asked.

Heavy first question. But he told her to do her worst.

“Well I uh...the last date I went on was with my girlfriend of about two years. And on said date she told me that she had been sleeping with a producer at Atlantic records for six months, and that he was going to share her demo. So, she didn’t need me anymore.” He shrugged around a sip of champagne.

“Two years? Two fucking years before she pulled that shit? That’s fucked.” She said. “I’m sorry.”

“Yea. It was really heavy at the time. Blamed my dad for a lot of it, even if it probably wasn’t his fault this time. But ever since then I just thought it might be easier to stick to the meaningless sex route.”

She nodded. “I fuck that up for you a little bit?”

“You have no idea.” He grinned rubbing his thumb along her chin. “I should’ve known the second I caught you checking me out at that party.”

“Excuse me? For the last time I was not ‘checking you out’. I was simply observing that snooze fest your father put on.”

“I was checking you out.” He admitted honestly. “I asked my dad to introduce us. I just knew I had to have you. And then I spoke to you and I found out you were trouble, and you weren’t going to take any of my shit. I should’ve known then.”

It’s a lot softer than anything he’s ever admitted before, and every time that he remembers that this is more, that they’re trying to become more, it makes his heart stutter in his chest. But she leans her head against his seat and she smiles at him like it means something to her to be open, to be vulnerable. And that alone is enough to get him to lean in.

“So maybe....maybe I was looking in your direction.” She says softly. “I’d heard of you. I’d just never actually seen you in person before. And maybe I was curious.”

“Curious?!” He laughed. “Okay. Curious. We can call it that; I’ll take it. Your turn. Worst date. Spill.”

She groaned softly and slid a little deeper into her seat, head fitting perfectly against his shoulder.

“I accidentally went to dinner with a Trump supporter.”

“Accidently?” He snorted.

“Don’t laugh asshole! It was thoroughly traumatic for me. I just thought that logically a white supremacist would not be interested in asking me, a black woman, on a date. I forgot that logic is not in their wheelhouse. It was awful.”

“Now your texts make a lot more sense.” He chuckled reaching his arm to pat her cheek. “That enough to take you out the game, aye?”

“I don’t know man...the world is fucking scary right now.” She sighed. “Sometimes it feels like there’s no one we can trust, like there’s no one who doesn’t have it out for us. It’s not just political agendas. It’s my safety. It really is that deep. It has to be.”

It’s this moment where she’s offering more of herself than she had in the entire time that he’d known her. Y/n was beautiful and sexy and intelligent, but there was also always this aura of mystery around her. Like she wasn’t quite ready to share herself, didn’t know if she could. And he wanted to find his way on the other side of that. He wanted to know her better than she knew herself. And he wants to cherish any moment where she’s willing to let him try that.

“I understand.” He paused and closed his eyes feeling maybe a little flustered and out of his element. “I mean I don’t. I know that I don’t, that I couldn’t but..I hear what you’re saying. And I believe you. I would like to know more at some point. If you’re willing to share it with me.”

Her eyes flicker over to his and they’re wide and brilliant and he wants to kiss her so bad.

“You do?” She checked.

He nodded and chanced reaching to pull her face a little closer, palm resting against her cheek.

“I do.”

She kisses him and it feels like the sun. It feels like everything.

***

*y/n’s point of view*

Rome  is kind of perfect. It’s not so hot that you’ve got to cover yourself in deodorant, but the sun is still pretty and bold in the sky. The hotel he takes you to has an entire terrace open for your access with those flowy ass curtains you only saw in cheesy 80’s pop music videos. There are couches that might as well be beds there so soft and plush. You touch down in the middle of the night and there’s not much to do but keep talking to each other, keep touching each other. You take your shoes off and sit out on the couches wrapped in blankets with another bottle of champagne. If the redness in his cheeks is anything to go off of, he’s just as tipsy as you, and it means that it’s not weird when you lean into him. No one’s gonna say anything for letting him hold you.

“It’s four am right now.” You giggled hiding your face in his neck. “It’s so beautiful here.”

“Do you like it?”

“Yea. I really do. I always wanted to come here. I can’t believe this is our first date.”

“I wanted it to be special for you. You deserve that.”

“Since when?” You asked so thoroughly confused by everything that he was. “I mean, yes. I definitely deserve this but...when you did you realize that you want it to be more than what we were? I thought you just wanted to fool around?”

“I did.” He whined stubbornly tracing your nose with his thumb. “I really did. But...you are very good at sex.” You laughed and he smiled. “I’m serious! One of the best partners I’ve ever had. And sometimes when our bodies were moving I just got lost in you. Like you were a fucking beautiful ass star capturing me with your light. And then you stopped arguing with me so much and just letting me be like...a friend to you?  And then Miami happened and I just--I wanted to be with you. And I realized that I wanted to be with you as a person, even when we weren’t having sex. I was scared. Until I realized that you liked me too. Then I got my confidence back.”

“Oh lord not your confidence.” You rolled your eyes.

“You have got to stop acting like you are not all up on this okay? I see the way you stare at me, honey. It’s okay. Let yourself give in to Mendes Magic!”

“I am officially not attracted to you anymore.” You snorted going to pull away.

He wrapped his arms around your waist and tackled you down to the couch. Your laughter poured out into the night as his fingers dug into your belly. You laugh until your stomach aches. Until there’s tears in your eyes. Until he kisses you and you feel it in your toes. Until the only thing you can think about, feel, smell, is him. And you melt like that against the couch.

***

Rome is beautiful. It’s the most beautiful place you’ve ever been. The sun rises in the sky and you’re up immediately tugging Shawn out of bed. There’s breakfast at this little place near the hotel that looks out over buildings that were unlike anything you’d ever thing. Everything was historic and rustic and so endlessly different from everything you’d seen before. It was really like something straight out of a movie with cobblestone walkways and buildings that were works of art themselves. It’s wild. It would be wild on any day of the week. That was before you looked over your glass of wine to this guy smiling at you like the beauty of the city around him meant nothing in comparison to looking at you.

You liked him. Shit you liked him a lot. And every time he looked you in the eye and hung on every word you said? It just blew you even further away. And you kept trying to remind yourself how unrealistic it all was. You were thirty afterall. The two of you were in different times in your life. He was still holding on to every word his dad said. You had plans for your life, for your career. It was hard to figure out whether or not he could fit into those plans. And maybe that wasn’t first date type of thinking, but hello! He took your ass to Rome. None of it was normal. So you walked a little faster, tried to hold harder to the moments that you had to share. Cause why not?

“Hey can we slow down for a sec?” He asked as you pulled him towards your third museum of the day.

You frowned. “I wanna see the ruins.”

“We can. I promise. Just let’s sit down for a second, yea?”

You’d been walking all morning, stopping at every nook and cranny that you came across. It was a three day trip anyway. You had no idea when you’d ever be back, if you ever would be back. But there’s something special about the company too. You remind yourself that he’s the reason you’re there. The vacation, though amazing, was really just an opportunity to be with him.

“Yea, of course.”

He tugged you to a little corner of these big huge steps that were filled with people just sitting down, chatting, eating their lunches. The second you’re no longer standing on your feet is a little bit like heaven.

“Okay make you were right.” You sighed wiggling your toes. “I’m tired.”

“Well that’s good. I was starting to think you were a robot.” He chuckled. “I’m glad I packed tennis shoes.”

You peered down at his feet and quickly laced your legs with his where the white tennis shoes stuck out in contrast to his black jeans.

“They look so funny on you. I like them. You’re cute.”

He smiled over at you. “I’m cute, aye?”

“You heard me.”

“Yea, well maybe I wanna hear you say it again.” He murmured taking your cheek into his hand.

“You’re cute.” You whispered before pressing your lips together.

You had yet to get over this new style of kissing. The way he rubbed so softly at your cheek you got goosebumps. The way his tongue could make you feel like time was slowing down. Almost like there was nothing left here. Nothing but the two of you and the way you could make each other feel. It was maybe the best feeling in the world.

“You’re beautiful.” He murmured when the kiss had ended, forehead pressed against yours. “I can’t believe you’re here with me right now.”

“I can’t believe you whisked me away to a different country for our first date.” She hummed. “What are you hiding? Do you have a third nipple or something? A serial killer perhaps?”

“Why are you so insistent on me killing people?” He laughed. “And you’ve seen all of my body at this point. If there was a third nipple don’t you think you would’ve seen it?”

“Well you’ve got me there. But statistically speaking at least fifty percent of all murders probably fit your description, honey. I’m just being realistic. I’ve seen what you can do with rope.”

He rolled his eyes and he found that it made you smile. And so he tended to do it more and more often.  That’s kinda how you knew you were fucked.

“What do you say we go see these ruins of yours, find some pasta, and fuck until we fall asleep?”

“As long as it’s in that order!” You gasped tugging him back to his feet to continue your wild adventure of the day.

***

*Shawn’s point of view*

He’s got a new kink. And it’s definitely her calling him baby when he’s inside her. It is without a doubt the sexiest thing she could do for him. Which makes so little sense. How fucking soft had she turned him in a few short months? This is where he was now, almost blowing his load because a woman called him baby. It’s not just a woman though. It’s her. Holy fuck it’s her, and the sound of her voice is like directly tied to his dick or something. Shit.

The couches on the terrace are perfect for sex in broad daylight. It’s completely secluded to just them, but anyone at the other hotels around would easily be able to hear them if they opened a window. It’s just another thing that seems to get them both hot and bothered. Her body is a dream. And he doesn’t need to tie her up to get lost in her. (Even if he really, really liked tying her up). All he needs is the feel of her body against his and his hands to direct her where he wants her to go, where he needs her to go for both of them to explode.

“Fuck.Honey you’re dripping. You’re dripping all over my dick.” He groaned tugging her thighs more ruggedly against his own.

“Baby I--I wanna cum.” She gasped, voice breathy and chaotic as her hips bucked like a fucking dream. “I wanna cum on it. Please?”

“It’s yours. Cum on it. Make yourself cum.”

He reached  around her waist to grind his fingers deep into her clit. Her ass began to bounce against him, quick and sharp and rugged. He’s barely holding on by a thread. And then she starts to squeeze down on him, her hips working to bring herself to her own climax, and he’s already done for.

“Fuck! I’m cumming.”

His fingers work harder on her clit, dropping down to his knees to drive desperately into her with everything he’s got left inside of him. It thrusts her over the back of the couch and he plasters himself against her back grinding tightly with everything that he’s got..  When she cums it’s just another accomplishment, another moment of making her feel good. It’s all he’s ever really wanted since they met.

“Holy fucking shit.” She gasped collapsing against his chest. “So good.”

“Yea? Still think I can’t dom you and date you at the same time?”

“Shhhh. No one has time for you sir, I can’t feel my legs.”

He nuzzled his way into her neck placing kisses against the skin. His arms were still wrapped around her and her fingers were playing in his hair. It was different than their usual hook ups, for sure. But, he liked it. He liked feeling close to her. He liked touching her and feeling her heart beat beneath his finger tips. Did she know how amazing she was?

“You want me to go get a towel?” He asked softly, pecking at her ear.

She hummed. “Not yet. Don’t leave yet.”

God he was ruined. Just like that.

“Yea okay.”

***

She hops in the shower and he has every intention of following her, of maybe pressing her into the shower door and fucking her until the glass breaks. But then his phone starts ringing and she giggles and runs off leaving his dick to twitch against his thigh. He was stupid on her. Aboslutely idiotic. And whoever was getting in the way of his idiocy was about to get an ear full.

“There better be someone dying!” He huffed eyes still very much on the shower where perhaps the most beautiful woman alive was waiting for him.

“That can be arranged. Can you explain to me why I had to find out from Tiffany that your half whit ass is in Rome right now instead of New York?” His dad roared.

Remember that whole things falling apart narrative? Surprise.

“Shit. Dad look I..I just needed to get away for awhile okay?”

“On the comapny fucking jet nonetheless?!”

“That jet has been open to family members as long as I’ve been alive. Since when is it even a problem?”

“Since you’ve been on that jet more than you’ve been in my office. I am tired of trying to explain this to you Shawn. The rules are very simple. You work for me, you do a good job, you get your inheritance. If you don't, you know what happens Shawn. Is that what you want, to make me have to do that to you?”

“Look Dad I,” He let his voice drop softer, shyer. “It’s not what it looks like. This isn’t just me fucking off okay? I--I like someone. Like really like them. And I just wanted to impress her. She’s different. And I wanted her to like me. This isn’t one of my hookups, I swear.”

He hadn’t liked someone in so long, hadn’t even come close to what he was feeling for y/n. Even though his dad was a dick and they had fought since the time he was eleven, there was still a part of him that yearned for his approval. It was hard not to get caught up in what the world knew his dad to be. It was hard not to feel like if he could just make him proud, just make him happy, then everything would be okay. He hadn’t been that naive in a long time, but it still pulled at him every now and again.

Manny sighed. “Great, son. That doesn’t help the fact that you went behind my back and are continuously neglecting your duties.”

“I--I’m not though. Niall is sitting at sixteen songs as we speak. You only wanted twelve remember? I convinced the producers to look into doing a deluxe edition. That’s gonna make the label happy, Niall happy, and it’s more money for you right? I’m back in LA in a week to work on the roll out for Sarah Leone to the press. I’m kind of working my ass off here. I’m doing everything you wanted.”

“Look whatever just get your ass back to New York, okay?” He muttered.

“I’ll be back in two days.”

“Shawn.”

“Two days. I’ll be back in two days, and I’ll keep living in this hell of a life you’ve set up for me , alright? See you then.”

He tossed his phone back onto the bed in frustration. The noose tightened a little in his absence, sick and tired of always fighting and always losing. It seemed like no matter what happiness he carved out for himself, he was always going to have to return home. Maybe he was kidding himself. Maybe there was no winning in this life.

He stands there for like forty-five seconds feeling sorry for himself, and just fully like a piece of shit. And then he hears her. It’s soft and gentle and sweet. He moves a little closer to the bathroom, the door still open and her naked body visible through the foggy glass door. She’s singing.

“I’m like a bird, I’ll only fly away.” She cooed softly. “I don’t know where my soul is, I don’t know where my home is.”

Her voice was soulful and low, her fingers cupping her breasts and rolling down over her hips as she sang. It really kind of hit him in his heart. He leaned against the edge of the doorway, head lolling back for support at this gorgeous sound coming out of this gorgeous woman. The music lover in him just wanted to sit on the floor and listen to her all day, it was so pretty. Maybe map out some harmonies for the two of them. And the fact that he could see the smile on her lips as she sang only made his heart feel two times too big for his sturnemum. He wasn’t ready for the way that she could make him feel. He thought he’d known that, thought he was preparing himself. Not so much. He wasn’t sure one could prepare themselves for a woman like y/n. Maybe that was his lesson to learn.

She catches sight of him out of the corner of her eye and her lips glue firmly shut. He practically pouts when she stops singing. His arms crossed against his chest tighten in dissatisfaction.

“What are you doing?” She whined leaning her head out of the shower.

He shrugged. “Was just listenin’. You didn’t tell me you sang.”

“You didn’t ask. And I don’t. I was just...humming.”

“Humming?” He laughed softly. “Okay. Well you hum beautifully.”

“Well thank you, I suppose. Was your phone call okay?”

“No. Not quite but, I’m good now. Can I wash your back for you maybe?”

“Yea. Boy, you ain’t gotta ask to wash my back. Come on!”

He steps back into the steam of the shower and it’s like nothing exists but the two of them. And he just really wants to keep it that way for a little while longer. If only for a little while longer.

***

They’re lying on a hotel bed that’s so soft it feels like they’re sinking. After another glorious round of sex he found himself tangled in the sheets beside her. Their heads at the foot of the bed because that’s the position where he’d made her cum last, and their feet intertwined at the headboard. She’s not looking at him, but instead up at the ceiling. This doesn’t seem to stop him from peering over at her. She’s kind of too beautiful to not look at.

“Can I ask you something?” He hedged carefully.

She peered over at him, eyes warm and sated.

“Yes.”

“I don’t...I really don’t know how to ask, or what to ask. And maybe--maybe I’m gonna come across like some dick, but I don’t wanna do that with you. I want to learn ya know? I want to understand.”

“Shawn?” She pressed getting his attention. “Calm down. Just ask.”

He nodded softly and took a deep breath. His fingers twitched anxiously against his stomach.

“That stuff you said earlier on the plane...you know about--about the trump supporter, and how that made you feel? And then sometimes...sometimes it sounds like you don’t really like white people, which like makes sense right? We’re the worst. But I just...I wanna understand more about...about what that means for you? Fuck. I’m sorry. That sounded dumb just saying it.”

He closes his eyes ready for her to slap him and take his jet all the way back to New York. He thinks maybe he’d deserve it. It wasn’t even that he’d never been with a Black woman before. Black Women were beautiful and ethereal and wonderful. But, even his tiny white man brain could understand that the state of the world was simply a little different nowadays. His mediocre understanding of racism and privilege simply wasn’t enough. And he knew that if he wanted to be with this woman, if he wanted to feel like he deserved to be near her and absorb her intellect, than he should probably do his absolute best to understand the world in which she walked. Because it certainly looked different from his own.

He feels her hand on his chest and his eyes flutter open. She curled her fingers around his own and sent him another gentle smile that made his toes curl at the other end of the bed.

“It’s not dumb.” She assured him. “You’re asking. You might not have the language, but you’re asking. And that means a lot to me, okay? A lot.”

He nodded his head dumbly, eagerly hanging on every word that she said. She lied back once again, her head nestling a little closer to his. She doesn’t let go of his fingers.

“So, I do hate white people sometimes.” She mumbled. “Sometimes in the discourse Black folks will often try to explain that it’s not all white people, it’s just some. And most days I can get there. I can recognize that. But like… that’s not really how it works you know? Even white people who wouldn’t lynch my black ass grew up in a culture that would. Even white folks who might not feel the need to say the n-word grow up in a culture that situates their body, their worth, their value over mine. And even if that’s not your fault, and I can recognize that it isn’t you know? That’s how privilege works, it’s subliminal. But even if it’s not your fault, it doesn’t mean that you don’t benefit. And it definitely doesn’t mean that you haven’t absorbed messages about my inferiority.”

He watches her face the entire time, more specifically the emotions that seem to rush through every pore and every muscle. There’s a bit of agony on her features. A bit of frustration. But as she warms up there’s a freedom to it too. He knows that she’s not editing her words. She’s not doing anything for his benefit. He asked and so she would tell him, in whatever way was meaningful for her.

“White people just...sometimes it really seems like y’all don’t give a shit. I’ve had the cops called on me at the very building that I work at. On the top floor, with some of the most powerful people in show bizz twenty-seven times since I started. To the point where Mike in security has to keep an updated description of me every time I change my hair just in case. I have walked onto sets to manage my artists and been told that the back up dancers are in the trailer around back. Every step I take, every goddamn day, there is always at least one white person there to tell me that I don’t deserve it. That I don’t belong. And the intersections of my blackness with my womanhood mean that I am consistently and constantly facing an uphill battle of two indentities that the world just doesn’t give a fuck about.”

He couldn’t look away from her. Never had he ever seen her be so vulnerable for him. Y/n was always just an inch or two behind a wall, always peeking out to give him glimpses but never really showing herself in her entirety. He watched the way that her chest rose and fell more rapidly, watched the way her fingers tightened around his own, and her eyebrows wrinkled on her forehead. It was anxiety. She was anxious and angry and sad. The way that her lips pointed down and her eyes blinked faster than normal told him as such. It kind of broke his heart.

And it’s all so new for him that the only thing he can do is follow his instincts and hope that either he doesn’t fuck it up, or that maybe she’ll forgive him if he does. So, he rested his head firmer against her and held her hands just as tight like maybe it might root her a little better in this room with him, like maybe she might feel safe with him.

“And the people...the people that do these things to you. That do these racist acts all the time they--they look like me don’t they?”

Her eyes that were trained on the ceiling fell down to meet his again. They’re still sad, but a little softer now.

She nodded slowly a bit of a grin forming on her lips.

“I’ma be honest ain’t nobody walking around looking quite like you but...yes they--they kind of look like you.”

He nodded slowly and tilted his head back to peer up at the ceiling now. There’s an anxiety to it for him too. In asking the questions that he didn’t have answers to, to be vulnerable enough in his ignorance. There’s a desire to get it right because she’s important to him, and then a dread when he realizes the time it will take to get there, and the pain that might cause her along the way.

“Shit y/n...why the hell would you even wanna go out with me? Even I hate me right now.” He sighed.

“That’s just the white guilt talking baby,” She snorted before sobering up quickly. “Look it’s complicated right? Like given my problems with white people and white men in particular, I’m firm enough in my blackness and my identity to recognize everything that I just explained to you, while also recognizing that things are never black and white. No pun intended. I can still love your humanity and your individuality as long as you’re willing to do the same for me. I can recognize that not all white people are the same, that you all think alike. I just need the space to have conversations like this. I need someone who cares enough to learn. Anything else isn't worthy of my time. Either you’re down with me always, even when it isn’t convenient, or you’re not. So, which is it?”

Her eyes are wide and clear. It’s that firmness in the set of her jaw that gets him. She’s dead serious. Either he buys into her, and all of her, or he doesn’t deserve any of her. He can see that. He can understand it. It’s not that he wants her bad enough to “deal” with the rest of it. It’s that he wants her bad enough to understand all of her. He wants to know. Needs to.

“I’m down.” He assured her reaching for her cheek in his palm. “For all of it.”

“You’re sure?” She mumbled with desperate eyes. “Cause if you’re not we can go back New York and just be fuck buddies again. You can still find you some white girl without hundreds of years of internalized genocide and systemic oppression on her shoulders.”

He shook his head and kissed her until the tension melted from her body. Because he needed it to. He needed her belief in him, her trust.

“I’m so damn sure it’s insane. Just want you.” He whispered.

She reached for his lips pulling him back to kiss her again.

“Promise.” She demanded as if it was even an option.

“I promise.”

***

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[aphrodites-law]

My Favorite

Trope: Soulmate marks.

Twist: Lexa doesn’t have one. Clarke does.

2/? - (Part 1)

~

A week passed at the hotel, but while Lexa glanced into the sitting room each time she walked by it, she never saw Clarke again. She went back and forth between the hotel and her apartment, putting her boxes away while the windows remained opened wide and the smell of paint slowly faded. Eventually she checked out of Griffin Hotel, where Jake gave her a cheery look before sending her off with a basket of fresh fruit from the breakfast buffet - a welcome gift, he’d said.

With her first classes to plan and organize, Lexa spent most of her time with her nose in her books and binders. She used the rest of it to familiarize herself with Polis, where she picked up a few habits in a matter of days. There was the grocery store with the peanut-butter pretzels that melted in her mouth, the bicycle path that cut through the park, and the coffee shop owned by Raven Reyes.

Raven ran a tight ship and was as welcoming as she was fascinating. Her two loves were space and food, and evidently she had combined them with great success. Her shop, Coffee on the Moon, was exactly what it sounded like - the best damn coffee Lexa had had in a uniquely decorated setting. The coffee machines were themed like space crafts, which Lexa had noticed were wildly popular with kids (and perhaps even more adults); the walls were painted in swaths of silvers and dark blues; and the art hung up was courtesy of local artists. In the display case, well-garnished sandwiches made with local produce rarely lasted the day, if even the rush of lunch hour.

Raven seemed to know everyone and everything, an unsurprising fact given her infectious energy. One morning, Raven had come into her shop without her prosthetic leg on account of the pain, she had shared casually, but not once in the following hour had Lexa heard her complain. She was an admirable woman, and Lexa was particularly fascinated by how quickly she had charmed Anya.

Anya, who wouldn’t admit to feeling lonely while her daughter was at summer camp, had surprised Lexa with a visit that had turned into a week-long stay. She’d met Raven quickly enough, and immediately Lexa had noticed the change in her demeanor. Usually always on her guard, Anya had seemed to... soften around the edges in a matter of minutes. It was clear to Lexa that Raven had caught Anya’s eye, not only with her wit but also her ability to run such a good business.

Unfortunately for Anya, who didn’t like to be surprised by her own feelings, she dealt with attraction rather poorly. That is, she’d be ready to snap if Lexa so much as implied there was something there. Lexa, however, could understand her need for caution: Anya was a working mother who would soon leave back to her home, hours away. It was hard to envision this relationship having a future.

And, surely, it would have remained that way had Raven not suddenly noticed the tattoo on Anya’s wrist and shown off her own: a depiction of the moon with the logo of her coffee shop covering the words she’d had since birth.

“Got it at twenty-five when my boyfriend of ten years dumped me for some chick he didn’t even know,” she explained.

When Lexa looked toward Anya then, she knew her friend’s interest was piqued for good. It was rare to meet anyone who had willingly tattooed their mark like Anya had. 

“A decade gone to dust because some skinny redhead told him what he’d always hoped to hear,” Raven revealed with a snort.

“So you don’t believe in the mark?” Anya asked cautiously.

“Oh, I do.”

As equally confused as her best friend, Lexa invited Raven to sit with them at their table. 

“I just don’t think the way we go about it works,” Raven elaborated. “Just because you meet - it doesn’t have to mean you’re right for each other at that exact moment, you know?”

“Or at all,” Lexa muttered.

“Well, I do think there’s truth to it,” Raven admitted. “It’s fucking beautiful, really, if we just see it as it is, but we have a messy approach.”

Lexa shook her head. “It’s just always seemed like... Do you love the person because of who they are, or do you love them because the words on your wrist tell you to?"

Raven smirked, like she had asked herself the same question a hundred times before. To do so aloud, however, was bold. “The way I see it? Just because your souls are bonded, doesn’t mean the relationship doesn’t need work. Sure, most movies show us it's happily ever after once the first words are uttered, but in reality the words are just the beginning. It's not easy to go from perfect stranger to soul-tied, you know?"

Anya rolled her eyes. "Cry me a river."

Raven shrugged. "If it weren't so taboo to admit you're unhappy with your soulmate, maybe some would realize it's because they're taking it for granted. My friend, Bellamy - his soulmate was this broody chick who straight up punched him for sleeping with her friend. Insulted the shit out of him; word for word the string of insults that wrap around his wrist four times. Anyway, she didn't give a shit when he showed her. Took them three years to meet again, and then another three to even like each other. Now they're expecting their first kid. But I think the best thing they did was to grow as people. The mark showed them the possibility for something life-changing was there - but they'd have to work for it first."

Lexa glanced at Anya, who had yet to look away from Raven.

"Look, I know it's fucked how you're treated," Raven continued, "but I don't think the mark itself is to be blamed. I mean, I think it was designed as a way to make life a little easier, that's all. But then… I don't know, most civilizations blew it out of proportion and turned it into something else. Decided that those who have it are better than those who don't - and backed up their points by turning the exceptions into the rule. That people without a mark are going to steal your jewelry or murder your kids one day, just because this one markless dude some thousands of years ago happened to be an ax murderer. Everyone loves to forget that ancient Egypt worshipped the Markless. They believed that they were in control of their own fate - freer. And don't get me started on the Greeks! They had whole temples dedicated to them. There's a reason the statues of their Gods didn't have marks, but nobody likes to bring that up.”

“Moral superiority is one hell of a drug,” Anya shrugged.

Raven chuckled. “I don't think anyone is better than anyone; it's just a bunch of people trying to be happy."

"Well, you're definitely an exception,” Lexa sighed. “I’ve been reminded of my place in the world enough times to know that.”

Raven was about to reply when the door to the shop opened. When Lexa saw that it was Clarke who had just walked in, her heart jumped in her throat.

“You’re back!” Raven exclaimed before getting up to pull Clarke into a hug. “How was it? How’s your mom?”

Clarke grinned in the embrace before pulling back to sign something. Lexa watched with rapt attention, trying hard to follow the movement of Clarke’s hands, but understanding none of her language in the end. She watched as Raven tipped her head back and laughed.

“Classic Abby Griffin.”

Clarke then pulled out a heavy paper bag from her backpack and gifted it to her friend, who immediately looked inside.

“Yes!” Raven turned to Anya and Lexa. “Best goddamn blueberry pierogi in the country!”

Clarke looked toward them as well and gave Lexa a small wave.

“You’ve met?” Raven asked. 

Clarke quickly signed something. Raven blinked, then burst out laughing.

“Oh fine, just go, you idiot.”

Clarke bit her lip before dashing toward the coffee shop’s restroom. Anya got up as well.

“I’ll be right back,” she excused herself.

Alone with Raven, who was now counting the pierogi in the bag, Lexa’s curiosity got to her.

“Are you good friends?”

Raven turned to her and nodded. “Clarke and I got each other through everything. There wouldn’t be a Coffee on the Moon without her.”

Lexa found incredible strength in Raven’s ability to be so open. “I wouldn’t be here without Anya,” she admitted in turn.

“How long have you known each other?”

“Since college. Anya... just helped me believe that I was more than the missing part.”

Raven’s face fell. “Shit. I’m really sorry."

Lexa shook her head. “It’s fine. Just made me who I am today.”

“No, it’s not fine. You know - Polis doesn’t tolerate that. We have each other’s backs here, mark or no mark. I think you’ll notice when you start teaching the kids. They really give me hope.”

Lexa smiled. “I look forward to it.”

Clarke and Anya came back from the restroom together, not exactly chatting but... Lexa could tell they’d communicated something to each other by the small smile on Clarke’s face. Anya sat back down at the table while Clarke signed something to Raven.

“Oh okay,” Raven answered. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Clarke nodded before she glanced once more at Lexa, mouthed ‘bye’, and left the shop. 

Raven turned to the table. “Okay, well, I need to put the pierogi in the fridge and make some calls, but let me know if you need anything.”

Lexa sat back in her chair with a sigh. She watched Anya pick up her cup of coffee and then smirk.

“She doesn’t have one.”

Lexa frowned slowly. “What?”

Anya chuckled, then took a sip of her coffee. “You’re so obvious, you know? I figured I’d check when she washed her hands.”

Lexa immediately sat up, hope blossoming dangerously in her chest. “She... doesn’t have-”

“Nope.”

Lexa worried her bottom lip before grabbing her phone. Anya didn’t seem fazed in the least.

“Are you buying a hundred books on sign language?”

Lexa swiped something on her screen. “Yep.”

-

Part three

[marvelhero-fics]

Shit, I've Missed You (Pt 3)

Here’s Part 1 and 2: Shit, I’ve Missed You, Part 2 

Pairing: Tom Holland x Reader

Summary: Part 3 of Shit, I’ve Missed You. You just arrived on the set of Spider-Man:FFH to surprise your long-time boyfriend, Tom. The two of you can’t keep your hands off each other. Which isn't very convenient when you give him a boner the morning he needs to film in the skin-tight spider suit

A/N: This can also be read as an independent fic, if you can’t be bothered reading the first or second ones, but it’s definitely cuter if you read it all together. Let me know if you guys want another chapter!!

Word Count: 1,343

Sunlight crept through the blinds slightly, hitting both you and Tom’s sleeping figures. You were pulled into consciousness as some noise rattled around outside. Mindlessly you stirred lightly against Tom’s body. His arm draped over your torso as his frame spooned yours. Without realising, you shuffled your ass into Tom’s pelvis, your mind awake enough to feel his hardened length in his briefs. His arms wrapped around your frame became tense, in an act to pull your body even closer to him. 

“Morning darling.” He mumbled, his voice raspy with sleepiness. You shuffled your body under his arm, managing to turn yourself around to face him. His eyes remained closed, his hair messy and tangled from the night before. The sunlight creeping in looked like honey on his tanned skin, his chiseled jaw-line poking out prominently as his head rest in a funny position on his pillow. 

A smirk fell upon your lips as your hand went up to trace along the long line of dark love bites on his neck. He flinched away, his hand quickly grabbing yours.

“Stop tickling me,” he groaned, his eyes opening to adjust to the light of the room. You giggled slightly, your hand moving from his grip to intertwine your fingers with his. 

“I didn’t mean too, sorry baby, it’s just- I think I gave you a bit too many love bites last night.” You replied, slightly ashamed but mainly proud. 

He looked at you with a soft look. “I might’ve given you a bit too many too.” He responded, his gaze moving down towards your neck and collar bones. You looked down in a motion to try see any dark bruises, but you couldn't. You quickly stood up to check the mirror across the bedroom, noticing black and purple spots starting from the bottom of your jaw, down your neck, and finishing along your collar bone.

“Tom! That’s so much worse than your ones! How am I going to hide these!” You said in shock, you’d given him maybe 2-3, however he’d reciprocated by giving you about 10. 

He simply shrugged, “don't hide them, let people know you’re mine.” He added, a smug tone to his voice. You looked at him with a harsh face, you weren't entirely upset, you knew how much he loved giving you hickeys, and a dark part of you liked having them, to show off to people what you had gotten up to the night before. However, you knew how badly you would be mocked for it too.

He stretched his body out, now laying on his back as the blankets pooled around his pelvis. Your nude frame moving back to the bed to straddle Tom’s waist, his hands instinctively moving to grab the smooth skin around your hips. “Maybe I need to give you a couple more,” you whispered, placing small kisses around his jaw. You gently began rubbing your lower body against his, grinding your pelvis down onto his almost fully erect length. 

As your kisses turned more into hickeys, his hands moved to your shoulders to stop you. “Baby, you can't do that. My make-up artists get super angry when I show up with these, they’re already gonna kill me for the one’s I have.” He spoke, referring to the dark bruises along his neck. You pouted slightly. To wipe the frown from your face, he pulled you down to place your lips against his. 

You felt his hard member aching against your bare skin, his hands gripping your hips tighter as he deepened the kiss. The two of you were ripped from your moment as there was a loud pounding on his trailer door. You pulled yourself from the kiss, earning a loud groan from Tom. You slipped back under the covers of the bed as he hopped out, stretching his arms and back muscles out. He waltzed out the bedroom, opening the front door widely. 

“Mate, you need to be at costuming in like 5 minutes, what’re you doing?” You over-heard Harrison speaking.

“Fuck,” Tom replied, slightly shocked. Clearly not realising the time over everything else the two of you were doing. Tom quickly flicked his head around to look at you and you simply smiled and shrugged in response.

“Oh, dude, put it away.” Harrison laughed, clearly noticing the outline of his boner through the dark fabric of his underwear. Both of them laughed slightly. “You realise you’re first scene today is in the skin-tight Spider-Man suit right?” Harrison added. 

You jumped up quickly, grabbing the bed sheet and wrapping it around your naked figure to join Tom and Harrison, trying not to trip on any of the extra fabric on the way.

“Just give me like 10 minutes Harrison.” You smirked, your hand grabbing the trailer door. Harrison simply shook his head and you practically slammed the door shut. Without warning you dropped the sheet down to the ground and pushed Toms body against the wall of his trailer, he clearly didn't resist. 

Your lips attached to his almost immediately. He hungrily deepened the kiss, his hands trailing all over your warm body, sending shivers up every nerve of your spine. You knew the two of you didn’t have that much time. His body tensed beneath you as your kisses moved down his jaw and neck. Your swollen lips left a wet trail of kisses down his torso, his abs more defined at this time of the morning when he hadn’t eaten breakfast yet. 

You quickly made your way to the elastic of his briefs, taking no time to push the fabric down his legs to leave him entirely naked. You could practically feel the smirk appearing on his lips as your mouth wrapped around his rock hard length. You only began to suck at the tip of him, teasing him slightly. A loud, throaty sigh escaped him as he loved the feeling of your warm mouth wrapped around his arousal. It took barely seconds before you had taken his whole member, his tip hitting the base of your throat with every thrust. 

His eyes watched you intently, moving his fingers to tangle in your already messy bed hair. He roughly pushed your head against his pelvis. The two of you knew you could pretty much be as rough as you wanted with each other, it was a very content relationship.

You applied pressure within your cheeks to push more force against his cock. His jaw clenched tightly, groaning through gritted teeth. Your eyes looked up at him while your head still bobbed against the base of his length. Making him practically weak in the knees. He let out a string of curse words mixed with your name. 

You dipped your head even lower in attempts to take even more of him in your mouth at once. His breathing became noticeably uneven, his teeth biting hard against his bottom lip and his legs began twitching. He even began thrusting himself into your mouth as one of your hands held tightly on his hip. 

He was clearly extremely close to the edge. His cock twitched in your mouth, making you grin lightly. He was practically melting in ecstasy as groans fell from his lips and his grip tightened in your hair. Within a few more thrusts, he began emptying himself in your mouth. You continued to suck gently, making sure he was really finished. 

His head hit the wall with a slight thud as he tried to control his breathing. You stood back up in front of him, licking his excess off your bottom lip. His hands harshly grabbed your hips, pulling your body to his. You smirked, wrapping your hands around the back of his neck to play with the hair at the back of his head.

“I fucking love you.” He breathed.

“I love you too, now you need to go to costuming, and I’ll come see you on set.” You replied, looking down at his lips as he began grinning. “And you can return the favour later.”

[writing-for-amusement]

Commission for Confidence 3

Summary: Y/N has been struggling with her self-esteem for years. After incessant pushing from your best friend, Y/N decides to commission an artist to draw her, expecting everything to happen via Internet. However, when your phone is stolen, you try to cancel the commission, but Peter Parker has other ideas. He quickly becomes enraptured by you, and a friendship forms easily. Will it lead to something more? Or will your past fears get in the way?

A/N: Okay, like I said, I’m impatient. This is where it starts picking up! You finally meet up with Peter and get to talking. I just realized, admittedly a little late, that this is probably going to be a slow, SLOW burn fic. Lol, I really can’t help myself, can I? I hope you enjoy it, please let me know what you think!!

Word Count: 2010 words

Taglist: @pparkerwrites, @scatterbrainedgenius

Warning: minor insecurity mention, mention of past therapy, slight anxiety

Chapter Three 

The next day, you got up and took a comfortable shower. Your apartment may be small, but it had wonderful plumbing and a shower/tub you could actually move around in.

With your laptop open on the counter, you cooked yourself a small breakfast and had The Golden Girls playing as you did. Then, despite knowing it was a casual meeting with a complete stranger, you agonized over your casual outfit for the late spring day.

Finally deciding on your favorite shorts and a comfortable Wonder Woman tank top, you looked in your mirror. Remembering what you’d always been told in therapy, you said three positive things about yourself: “My thighs are powerful and strong. I can lift heavy objects when I need to. My laugh is genuine.”

Satisfied with your little exercise in self-love (it was a process and some days were much harder than others), you brushed your teeth and styled your hair the way you liked it. With still time to spare, you gathered your things and finished your episode, chuckling at Sophia’s sharp insults.

As you left your apartment and locked the door, you tried to calm your nerves. You were always nervous when you were meeting new people, and this was certainly not going to be an exception. You were glad that you were getting coffee, as having something to hold in your hands would help you stop fidgeting.

On the subway, you overheard a few people talking about Spider-Man’s latest save. The superhero had been saving Queens (and other places) for years before you had moved there, but you still hadn’t seen him. You’d heard plenty about him, fun anecdotes from colleagues or people in shops, but you had never seen the superhero in person.

You thought back to the first time you’d seen anything about Spider-Man, years ago when the hero was just a YouTube star. And you recalled him helping Tony Stark and the Avengers at large, and his escapades in Europe. Still, after all that, he seemed to always call Queens home. It was, if anything, intriguing.

You arrived at the café early, though you had anticipated that. You always left home early when traveling into the heart of Manhattan, just in case there were accidents or delays. So, content with your extra time to yourself, you ordered your usual beverage and sat down with your laptop and a manuscript in your hands.

It was a little past 1 p.m. when you heard someone clear their throat to get your attention. You looked up, suddenly aware that you had the tip of your pen in your mouth, and then you saw a man standing in front of you with a cup of coffee and a bag on his shoulder.

He was definitely handsome. His hair was a medium brown with fluffy curls, but his eyes were a darker brown that you could see yourself getting lost in. And, as with most men, his eyelashes were unfairly long. He had a bright smile on his face, and it made your traitorous heart flutter; you could see his freckles. The man was obviously fit, his arms toned from what you could see; his nerdy shirt make you chuckle to yourself.

The general vibe you got from him was warm, kind, and accepting.

“Are you Y/N?” he asked you as he smile shifted into a grin.

“Ah, yes, that’s me!” you stuttered slightly, moving your stuff around on the table. “Are you Peter Parker?”

“Indeed, I am,” he stated, sitting in the chair next to you instead of the one across from you. You were occupying yourself with getting your things out of the way, and your normal apology left your lips.

“I’m so sorry, I generally spread out when I’m working on something good, I should have just left the work alone, so sorry,” you spewed, rambling nervous apologies.

You had a feeling that Peter Parker would be cute, but for him to be this deviously handsome and cute had you definitively flustered.

“No apologies needed,” Peter reassured you, resting his elbows on the table. “You really weren’t that spread out, especially not on such a small table.” He held his hand out for you, and you shook it, the warmth creeping up your wrist.

You chuckled nervously and shoved your pen back in your bag. “So,” you began gently, “how are you today?”

“I’m marvelous,” he replied, taking a sip of his coffee and glancing at you over the top of the cup. “How are you?”

“Oh, I’m actually really good!” you beamed, thumbing your own cup. “I had a really good morning, actually. My commute was surprisingly sparse for a Saturday.”

“Where do you commute from?” Peter asked with a tilt of his head.

“Queens,” you replied, taking a sip of your drink. You were surprised and almost choked when Peter burst into loud laughter.

“We could have met up in Queens!” he explained as he finished laughing. The sound had made your heart skip, but you ignored it. “I live in Queens.”

You laughed lightly, saying, “Well, now we know!”

Peter finished laughing and watched you carefully. You sipped your drink and forced yourself to remain calm in the less awkward situation the man had created.

“You are just,” Peter paused, seeming to try to find the best word, “so cute!” he finished, making a gesture with his hands for emphasis.

You felt your cheeks warm and you looked away with a small chuckle. “Well, you’re pretty handsome yourself.”

“Thanks,” he blushed adorably.

Because of course he blushed adorably.

“So, tell me about yourself,” he requested, pulling a sketchbook out of his bag. “Hope you don’t mind if I take some notes?”

“N-no, not at all!” you reassured him. “Um, well, what would you like to know?”

“Everything,” Peter told you with a gleam in his eyes.

You blinked slightly before going into a stumbling explanation of your life. You told him about how you’d moved to New York for work, and that got you into how much you’d always loved reading about anything and everything (except math), and how you loved your job being an editor and helping budding authors and artists.

“I just recently started reading a draft about a society that revolves around plants and flowers, and it involves a lot of floriography, the meaning of flowers and plants, and it specifically talks about how this one expert is getting tied up between two mafias because both are asking for arrangements from them to send to the other as messages, you know—” you cut yourself off abruptly. “I’m sorry, that’s not important.”

“No, no!” Peter protested, giving you a reassuring smile. There was a glimmer in his eye that you couldn’t quite place, and you couldn’t see what he was writing. “I think it’s great. The way you talk about books and tell stories makes me want to read them. You’re a talented storyteller, Y/N,” he smiled.

You chuckled, taking a sip from your coffee, “I’ve always been a rather animated storyteller,” you admitted. “When I send videos to my friends on Snapchat, they get upset when they send out of order.”

“Tell me about a time where you were, oh, amazed by something,” Peter suggested.

You pursed your lips in thought. “I once got to hike on an island in the Pacific,” you began, thinking back on the memory. “It was for work, believe it or not, and I got to check out this amazing sleeping volcano. And as I stood at the top, looking out on a cove below, I couldn’t believe it. The sun was beginning to set, creating this beautiful sky over the ocean. It made me feel… small, but comforted, as if I was being hugged by a close friend. And, Peter, those colors, I think I cried.

“The sun created this magnificent amalgam of the softest of pinks, the most vivid of violets, and the sweetest of blues, all blending together in some sort of wonderful symphony of serenity. The orange in the sky, fading softly, was like an orange dreamsicle, at that point between frozen and melting. And the ocean, it glittered gold as if with thousands of fireflies gliding across the calm waves.”

You looked up to see Peter just watching you, perching his chin on his hand and regarding you with the softest smile you’d ever seen.

“What?” you asked, a small blush tipping your ears.

“Can I take you back to my place?” he blurted.

“What?!” you were shocked at his bluntness.

“For art!” he continued quickly, his face turning bright red and his eyes widening comically, almost like a cartoon.

You found yourself laughing brightly, your eyes closed in mirth and your head tilted backwards. You enjoyed spending time with Peter already, and you had only been talking for about an hour. He was a sweet guy, paying attention to what you said with the most beautiful light in his gentle brown eyes.

"Yeah, yeah,” he pouted, “laugh it up. I’m just going to sit here, embarrassed, and try to think of a way to redeem myself in your eyes.”

You managed to wrangle your laughter into small chuckles, covering your smile with a hand as you looked at the man across from you. Peter was pouting playfully, his arms crossed over his chest. It was obvious that he was joking, however, because he kept glancing at you and his lips twitched to stop him from smiling.

“How do I know that you’re not a serial killer?” you asked, tilting your head and regarding him in mock seriousness.

“Well then,” he leaned forward, meeting your eyes dead on, “perhaps Spider-Man will come save you.”

Your head tilted back again as you laughed, though not for as long as before. “You know, I’ve lived her awhile now, and I still haven’t even seen Spider-Man in person.”

“Really?” Peter was obviously surprised, with once again comically large eyes.

“Yes, really,” you confirmed with a nod. “I never seem to be around where he is at any given time. I hear stories about him, though, all the time. Heard some on the subway here. He seems like a nice guy, if a little reckless sometimes.”

“Reckless?”

You nearly rolled your eyes at his almost offended tone, but truly, he seemed more intrigued than anything else. “I saw a video of him throwing not one, but two cars at an enemy. That is, admittedly, a little reckless when there are tons of people running around, trying to get away.”

Peter seemed to think about what you said, having a conversation with himself in his head that was obvious by the shifting of his facial expressions. Finally, the man seemed to heave a sigh, and he nodded.

“Yeah, I guess he is a little reckless sometimes,” Peter nodded, as if he knew the hero personally. You almost asked if he did, but he changed the subject by continuing, “So, would you like to be a live model for me? I promise I’m not a serial killer.”

You pursed your lips and looked off to the side, pretending to think intently about the idea. You almost broke character when you say him shift nervously but managed to keep yourself in check. You should be an actress, you thought.

Finally, after what couldn’t have been more than a minute, you looked at Peter with a bright smile. “Alright, Peter, I’ll be a model. Though I’m sure I’m not anywhere near the prettiest model you’ve ever had, I’ll do my best.”

You both stood and you didn’t miss Peter’s furrowed brows at your comment. You hoped that he would drop it, as you were already regretting saying that you weren’t pretty. You knew that it wasn’t true, but oftentimes your anxiety and history of self-deprecation got right ahead of you. Today, you were actually doing okay, other than that one slip of the tongue that you’d uttered to a gorgeous man.

Then again, sometimes the smallest of things could set you back three years.

[iheartseo]

for me // ashton i.

requested: no

word count: 1.6k+

synopsis: it is really the little things that matter and he loves that she learnt something so sweet for him just so they can spend that one minute together.

a/n: this idea has been stuck in my fucken head for AGESS. and i know i haven’t written anything in years but i hope you guys like this quick little blurb thing. i was going to write it for shawn, but considering ashton has been rocking suits lately, i had to do it for him. enjoy!! italics mean flashback.

masterlist // requests are open

“Babe!” Ashton called as he looked in the mirror, struggling to get his tie right. He furrowed his eyebrows as he unraveled the messy knot that he attempted himself. Before he began his sixth attempt, in walked in his girlfriend of five years. She leaned against the door frame from their bedroom, smirking with her hands folded across her chest. To say that she found it entertaining and a little bit sad that her boyfriend who could play almost any instrument he wanted, could string words together so poetically and thoughtfully and is even incredibly open minded towards anything artistic, could not tie his own fucken tie.

He looked up from his tie, his hazel eyes meeting her bright one. He gave her a small, sad smile which was begging for help.

“Need some help?” she asked, clearly finding his struggle amusing.

“If you don’t mind.”

Rolling her eyes playfully, she pushed herself off the door frame and walked towards him. He turned around, and completely undid his pathetic sixth attempt of tying his tie. Her smile stayed on her face when she approached him, smoothing out his tie and adjusting the length of it first before beginning to fold it in such an expert manner.

“You are absolutely useless, you know that?” she teased, her eyes flicking from his tie and his face. Ashton chuckled softly, shrugging his shoulders. “Glad you realised after all these years.” he responded back quickly. She rolled her eyes once more and concentrated back on tying his tie. For today, his tie was a classic black though there was a textured paisley pattern all over it that was only visible in certain angles when the light would hit it just right. He was wearing pairing it with a classic black suit jacket and slightly flared out pants.

“What’s the event going on tonight again?”

“To be honest, I have no idea. Some weird mixer thing that is going on at the label. The theme is black tie.”

“Sounds boring.”

“Yeah, especially since my baby isn’t coming.”

“Sorry Ash, but that 2000 word paper on the important use of commas in linguistics isn’t gonna write itself.”

Ashton laughed softly as he shook his head, causing her to hit his chest softly as she muttered ‘stay still’. He continued to smile, finding her concentration to tying his tie absolutely adorable. Her weird obsession with making his tie look perfect allowed them both to share a quick but intimate moment together. It was where he was able to hold her close and admire her beauty. Whether she was in full makeup, her toned down makeup, or her bare face, Ashton loved being this close to her to admire everything about her. It made him smile finding a new sunspot or freckle across her cheeks, or even a loose eyelash to which he gently would brush away and then end up gently caressing her cheeks.

In moments like this, he would get lost in his own little world.

That world being two gorgeous eyes and a weird little laugh.

That world being dry jokes and loud, startling awes at puppy and kitty videos on facebook.

That world being warm hugs and a heartbeat.

Her.

She then pulled up her perfectly created knot up to just the right height where he wouldn’t feel suffocated by the tie, or that the tie looked too loose on him. She straighten everything out and smiled. Her boyfriend was definitely handsome with a tie on.

She looked up from her creation and smiled at her boyfriend. “There you go rockstar. One perfectly good tie.” Ashton smiled back at her as he leaned down slightly to give her a quick kiss, holding onto her waist. “Thank you, baby.” he said, kissing her once more.

“You sure you can’t come to this party? I’m pretty sure they will have those mini bruschettas that you love so much going around.”

“Yikes… tempting, but my assignment is due this week and I really should start on it.”

“How did I find someone so dedicated and so smart?”

“You just got lucky, I guess.”

“Then I am the luckiest guy in the world.”

She let out a soft giggle when he pulled her closer to kiss her again.

“God, I love you.” he whispered against her lips.

“I love you too.”

---

It was an ungodly hour in the morning, but Ashton and the boys had a packed schedule filled with several radio interviews, magazine interviews and acoustic performances that would last them the entire day. Ashton thanked the makeup artist and hair stylist for finishing off his look for the interview that was up next. He got up from his chair and grabbed the tie that was apart of his ensemble. He would’ve put it on when he was in his hotel room but didn’t have the time considering he was immediately rushed out of his room to get to the first radio.

He stood in front of a mirror and began to tie his tie, surprisingly effortlessly without any mistakes. Smiling at his work, the drummer immediately noticed a surprised look on Michael’s face in the reflection. He turned his head and furrowed his eyebrows at his band member.

“Yes?”

“I thought you didn’t know how to tie a tie.”

“I do?” “Then why do you cry for Y/N all the time to come over and do up your tie for you?”

Ashton bite his lower lip, not wanting to admit the real reason why he lets his girlfriend do his tie every single time.

“I-I just like it better when she does it…”

Michael raised an eyebrow at how flustered and shy the drummer got, not believing a single syllable that just came out of his mouth.

“Uh huh. Yeah mate, I don’t believe you. Now what’s the actual reason?”

Ashton sighed as he shook his head. He took his cup of coffee that was sitting on the bench and took a quick sip of it before shrugging his shoulders.

“I let her do my tie because she learnt how to do it for me…”

Ashton smiled softly at the pizza delivery guy, handing over the money and a small tip. He grabbed the pizzas and told the worker to have a good night before politely shutting the door. Carrying the food to the coffee table, he made sure that the had the right TV show set up on Netflixs and her favourite candle burning in the corner.

“Babe! Pizza is here!” he called out. However, he didn’t hear a response back making him confused on what his girlfriend was doing. “Honey?” he called out again, walking towards their bedroom.

As he approached closer and closer to the slightly opened door, he heard another voice in the room. Thinking that she was listening to her lectures on a high volume again, Ashton slowly pushed the door open, peaking through the gap to just check up on what she was doing. However, he didn’t find her writing notes as her lecturer was speaking. In fact, she was doing that completely threw him off. She was sitting on their bed with one of his ties around her neck.

The look of concentration and determination was painted across her face as she was slowly following the instructions that was being said to her on her laptop. Ashton stood at the door, wondering how long she had been learning this for but finding the whole thing completely sweet and adorable. He stood and watched as his girlfriend sighed softly out of annoyance and reattempted to tie his tie once more. She bit her lower lip, following the instructions to a tee. Once she pulled up the knot, she quickly ran to the mirror and smiled widely.

“Holy fuck finally!” she exclaimed quietly to herself.

As proud as he was, Ashton remembered that they were supposed to be having a date night, causing him to clear his throat as he knocked on the door, opening it up fully to reveal himself. Hearing his voice, she quickly took off the tie and threw it somewhere where it couldn’t be seen. She turned around and gave her boyfriend an innocent smile. “Oh, hey babe. Is the food here yet?”

Ashton immediately noticed at his tie around her neck was gone, but tried his absolute best not to say anything. Instead, he just smiled at her and nodded his head.

“Thank fuck, cause I am starving!” she said, shutting her laptop close before walking out of the room, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before walking out.

“Wait so she doesn’t know that you know?”

“Well I mean, probably after this interview she will know.” Ashton laughed nervously as his face quickly started to blush. He had never told this story to anyone, not even to any of the boys before. He wanted to keep that moment to himself, though the more he thought about the story, the more he just wanted to brag and express how cute his girlfriend is and how much unconditional love she shares for him, especially with little things such as learning to tie his tie for him.

“That is so adorable!” The interviewer awed as Ashton laughed nervously once more.

“Yeah, my girlfriend is pretty adorable. I’m pretty lucky.” he smiled.

“So what are you gonna do now? Especially cause you know how to tie your own tie. Are you still going to need her to tie it for you?” the interviewer asked.

Without hesitation, Ashton immediately answered ‘yes’ following with an incredibly meaningful ‘no matter what, I’m always going to need her. Whether it is to tie my tie, make me my favourite dish or send me good morning messages; I’m always going to need her in my life. She is wifey. She honestly is.’

tagged: @24kcalum @irwinkitten @nostalgia-luke @flannelpunkcalum @ohhmuke @calumhoodaf @asht0ns-world